fbr/kMght 

'■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■V 

SmUeZola 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
EDWIN  CORLE 


PRESENTED  BY 
JEAN  CORLE 


FOR  A  NIGHT 

THE  MAID  OF  THE  DAWBER 

COMPLEMENTS 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/fornightmaidofdaOOzola 


FOR  A  NIGHT 

The  Maid  of  the  Dawber 
Complements 


After  the  French 


EMILE  ZOLA 

BY 

Alison  M.    Lederer 


PHILADELPHIA 

BROWN   BROTHERS 
1911 


Copyright,  1911 

BY 

BROWN  BROTHERS 

First  Printing,    November,    1911 


cIo  Ms  WiU 


2043803 


The  following  pages  from  Zola,  which 
the  translator  believes  are  now  for  the 
first  time  offered  in  English,  were  se- 
lected from  two  volumes  published  by 
Charpentier.  The  novel  Pour  Une  Nuit 
d' Amour  appeared  in  conjunction  with 
Le  Captaine  Burle  and  some  other  fic- 
tion in  a  volume  which  was  in  its  ninth 
thousand  in  1885.  La  Vierge  au  Cirage 
and  Les  Repoussoirs,  together  with  two 
other  bits  which  the  author  called  Les 
Yielles  aux  Yeux  Bleus  and  L^  Am  our 
Sous  Les  Toils,  which  I  have  not 
thought  quite  distinctive  enough  to  in- 
clude in  these  selections,  were  entitled 
as  a  group  Esqidsses  Parisiennes,  and 
appeared  in  a  volume  to  which  the  tale 
Le  Voeu  cVUne  Morte  gave  its  name, 
published  by  the  same  firm  a  little  later 
-"Nouvelle  edition  1889." 

So  much  for  the  bibliography.  I  can- 
not be  more  detailed  for  lack  of  inform- 


ation.  It  is  interesting  to  notice  from 
a  note  presumably  furnished  by  Zola 
himself  that  the  source  of  the  plot  of  the 
psychopathic  novel  For  A  Night  is  in 
Casanova.  There  is  something  dis- 
tincth^  of  the  moment  in  both  the  matter 
and  the  treatment:  much  more  so  in 
the  former,  for  I  am  not  quite  certain 
that  Mr  Newte,  Dr  Sudermann  or  even 
Upton  Sinclair  would  have  caught  and 
preserved  the  rarified  calm  and  perfect 
simplicity  of  the  atmosphere  of  "the 

little  town  of  P "  (which  I  have 

called  Pinard  for  the  smoothness  of  the 
English)  and  the  limpidity  of  the 
Chanteclair. 

It  would  be  merely  trite  to  refer  to 
the  maid  of  the  dawber  and  her  master 
as  studies  of  character.  So  much  goes 
under  that  phrase  in  our  days  of  the 
science  of  this  and  that.  The  dramatic 
manner  in  which  the  author  carries  the 


intrinsic  level  of  caste  through  this  in- 
cident, or  rather  weaves  the  incident  to 
indicate  the  level  of  caste,  is  one  of  the 
good  things  of  literature  and  carries 
conviction. 

And  that  delightful  bit  of  fooling 
which  he  conceived  in  Les  Repoussoirs, 
though  scarcely  as  vital  and  essential  as 
the  former,  surely  has  a  charm  of  its 
own.  The  juxtaposition  of  the  nonsense 
and  the  pity  of  it,  just  as  in  real  life, 
do  thrill. 

A.  M.  L. 

^^Inwall,"  Milford,  Penna.,  1911. 


CONTENTS 


For  a  Night 15 

The  Maid  of  the  Dawber  .         .         109 

Complements         ....  127 


FOR   A    NIGHT 


FOR  A  NIGHT 


The  little  town  of  Pinard  is  built  upon 
a  hill.  At  the  foot  of  the  old  ramparts 
flows  a  stream  with  high  banks  and  very 
deep,  the  Chanteclair— so  called  from 
the  clear  ripple  of  its  limpid  w^aters.  If 
you  come  by  the  road  from  Versailles 
you  cross  the  Chanteclair  near  the  south 
gate  of  the  town  by  the  stone  bridge  with 
a  single  arch,  the  low,  rounded  parapets 
of  which  serve  all  the  old  men  of  the 
countryside  as  benches.  Straightaway 
rises  the  street  called  Beau-Soleil,  at 
end  of  this  lies  a  silent  square  called 
the  square  Quatre-Femmes.  It  is  paved 
with  large  round  stones,  between  which 
coarse  grass  sprouts  and,  from  a  dis- 
tance, makes  it  greenish  like  a  meadow. 
15 


16  FOR  A  NIGHT 

The  houses  shunher.  Every  half  hour 
the  dragging  footstep  of  some  passerby 
rouses  a  dog  to  bark  behind  a  stable 
door.  The  only  life  of  this  forgotten 
corner  is  the  passing  of  the  military  of- 
ficers t^^'ice  a  day,  when  they  go  to  their 
mess  at  the  inn  on  Beau-Soleil. 

In  a  florist-gardener's  house,  on  the 
left,  there  lived  a  young  man.  The  gar- 
dener had  rented  him  a  large  room  on 
the  second  floor;  and,  since  he  himself 
occupied  the  other  wing  of  the  house,  on 
Catherine  Street,  nearer  his  garden, 
Julien  Michon  lived  undisturbed,  with 
his  own  hall-door  and  stair-case,  and 
was  settled  do^Yn  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
five  to  the  hobbies  of  a  secluded  old 
bachelor. 

He  had  lost  his  father  and  mother 
very  young.  The  Michons  had  been 
harness  makers  at  Alluets,  near  Mantes. 
Upon  their  death,  an  uncle  had  sent  the 


FOR  A  NIGHT  17 

boy  to  school.  Then  the  uncle,  too,  died, 
and  Julien  was  clerk  at  the  post-office 
at  Pinard  for  the  last  five  years.  His 
salary  was  fifteen  hundred  francs,  with- 
out any  chance  of  advancement.  But 
he  was  economical  and  had  no  extrava- 
gant ideas. 

Strapping,  strong  and  raw-boned, 
Julien  had  large  hands;  and  this 
troubled  him.  He  knew^  he  was  ugly, 
his  head  square,  as  though  left  in  the 
mold  by  a  tipsy  sculptor  with  a  careless 
press  of  the  thumb.  And  it  made  him 
very  backward,  especially  in  the  pres- 
ence of  young  w^omen.  Once,  when  a 
girl  had  told  him  laughingly  that  he 
was  not  so  bad,  he  took  her  remark  very 
seriously.  When  in  the  street  he  swung 
his  arms,  stooped  dreadfully,  hung  his 
head  and  took  long  strides— to  get  away 
more  quickly,  under  cover.  His  awk- 
wardness  made   him  continually  irri- 


18  FOR  A  NIGHT 

table— an  unliealthy  incident  of  medioc- 
rity and  obscurity.  He  seemed  to  be 
perfectly  resigned  to  live  on  thus,  with- 
out a  friendship,  without  a  touch  of 
romance,  with  only  his  monkish  taste 
for  seclusion. 

And  this  life  did  not  weigh  on  his 
broad  shoulders.  Julien,  at  bottom,  was 
very  happy.  His  soul  was  calm  and 
transparent.  His  daily  existence,  with 
the  rules  which  governed  it,  w^as  the  es- 
sence of  tranquillity.  In  the  morning 
he  went  to  the  office  and  settled  do^vn 
comfortably  to  the  task  left  over  from 
yesterday.  Then  he  lunched  sparingly, 
and  took  up  his  writing  again.  Then  he 
dined,  then  went  to  bed  and  slept.  Next 
day,  sunrise  only  brought  back  yester- 
day. And  this,  week  by  week,  month  by 
month.  The  long  perspective  took  on  a 
rhythm,  and  rocked  him  into  the  sweet 
dreams  which  cattle  have,  drawing  a 


FOR  A  NIGHT  19 

cart  by  day  and  sleeping  at  night  on 
fresh  straw.  He  absorbed  the  full 
charm  of  monotony.  Sometimes  he  en- 
joyed going  down  Beau-Soleil  after 
dinner  and  sitting  on  the  bridge  to  hear 
the  clock  strike  nine.  He  let  his  legs 
hang  over  the  water,  and  watched  the 
Chanteclair  flow  by  under  him  with  the 
wash  of  its  silver  ripples.  The  wil- 
lows along  both  banks  bent  their  pale 
heads,  staring  at  their  own  reflections. 
Above,  the  thin  grey  of  twilight  was 
falling.  And  he  remained  spellbound  in 
this  great  calm,  thinking  confusedly 
that  the  Chanteclair  ought  to  be  happy 
like  himself  to  roll  on  forever  over  the 
same  rocks,  in  the  midst  of  such  a  beau- 
tiful silence.  ^^Tien  the  stars  began  to 
twinkle  he  went  home  to  bed,  his  lungs 
full  of  the  fresh  air. 

Moreover,    Julien   had   other   pleas- 
ures.   On  holidays  he  set  out  all  alone 


20  FOR  A  NIGHT 

ou  foot,  enjoying  long  rambles  and  re- 
turning thorouglily  tired  out.  And  he 
even  made  friends  ^vith  a  mute,  an  en- 
graver, whose  arm  he  held  on  long 
walks  on  the  highway,  without  speech 
the  whole  afternoon.  At  other  times, 
from  the  rear  of  the  Cafe  des  Voy- 
ageurs,  he  and  his  mute  would  silently 
watch  the  interminable  parties  with 
ladies  come  and  go.  He  had  once  had  a 
dog,  which  was  run  over  by  a  carriage, 
and  he  preserved  the  memory  so 
religiously  that  he  would  have  no  other 
pet.  At  the  post-office  they  teased  him 
about  a  little  girl  of  ten  years,  a  bare- 
foot tatterdemalion  who  sold  matches, 
and  to  whom  he  gave  pennies  without 
taking  any  of  her  wares  in  return. 
This  angered  him,  and  after  that  he 
slipped  the  pennies  into  her  hand  un- 
seen. No  one  ever  saw  him  in  com- 
pany with  a  petticoat  on  the  ramparts 


FOR  A  NIGHT  21 

in  the  evening.  Even  the  working  girls 
of  Pinard,  ven^  forward  wenches,  had 
come  to  let  him  alone,  when  they  saw 
that  he  was  bashfnl  in  their  pres- 
ence and  mistook  their  smiles  of  eneonr- 
agement  for  mockery.  About  the  town 
some  called  him  stupid;  others  hinted 
that  one  would  do  well  to  beware  of 
these  young  fellows  who  are  so  gentle 
and  live  alone. 

Julien's  paradise,  the  spot  where  he 
was  really  comfortable,  was  his  own 
room.  There  only  he  felt  sheltered 
from  strangers.  He  would  jump  up  and 
laugh  aloud,  and  every  time  he  looked 
into  the  mirror  he  was  surprised  to  find 
himself  veiy  young.  The  room  was 
large.  He  had  put  in  a  generous  couch, 
a  round  table,  two  chairs  and  an  arm- 
chair; and  there  was  a  plenty  of  space 
to  walk,  besides.  The  bed  was  almost 
lost  at  the  back  of  an  immense  alcove. 


22  FOR  A  NIGHT 

A  little  washstand,  between  the  two 
windows,  seemed  like  a  toy  affair.  He 
would  walk  to  and  fro  or  stretch  out 
at  full  length  on  the  couch;  he  wasn't  in 
the  least  in  his  own  way.  He  never 
wrote  outside  the  office,  and  reading 
tired  him.  Since  the  old  lady  who  kept 
the  boarding-house  where  he  took  his 
meals  insisted  upon  ministering  to  his 
education  by  loaning  him  novels,  he  read 
them.  But  after  he  had  got  all  through 
he  could  not  remember  a  single  thing: 
these  complicated  stories  were  so  lack- 
ing in  common  sense  to  him.  He 
sketched  a  little— always  the  same  head, 
a  woman's  profile,  with  a  severe  expres- 
sion and  with  fillets  and  pearls  in  the 
knot  of  her  hair.  His  only  craving  was 
for  music.  For  whole  evenings  he 
played  his  flute;  and  this  was  his  great- 
est recreation. 
Julien  had  learned  to  play  the  flute 


FOR  A  NIGHT  23 

by  himself.  For  a  long  while  he  had 
coveted  an  old  flute  of  yellow  wood  in 
the  window  of  a  second-hand  shop  on 
the  market  square.  He  had  the  money, 
but  he  did  not  dare  go  in  and  buy  it,  for 
fear  of  being  ridiculed.  Finally,  one 
evening  he  mustered  up  enough  cour- 
age to  carry  it  home.  He  ran  all  the 
way,  hugging  it  close  to  his  bosom,  hid- 
den under  his  coat.  Then,  behind  closed 
doors  and  windows,  for  two  years  he 
had  spelled  out  an  old  book  of  instruc- 
tion which  he  picked  up  at  a  little  shop 
—very  low,  so  no  one  should  hear.  It 
was  only  for  the  last  six  months  that  he 
dared  play  with  the  windows  open.  He 
knew  some  very  old  airs,  slow  and 
simple,  romances  of  the  last  century, 
which  sounded  infinitely  tender  as  he 
worked  them  out  with  the  awkwardness 
of  a  pupil  full  of  feeling.  On  warm  eve- 
nings,   when    the    neighborhood    was 


24  FOR  A  NIGHT 

asleep,  and  this  delicate  song  was 
Tvafted  out  of  the  large  room  lighted  by 
a  candle,  it  might  be  taken  for  a  lover's 
voice,  low  and  tremulous,  confiding  to 
the  solitude  and  to  the  night  what  it 
would  never  have  said  in  the  daytime. 

Often,  too,  since  he  knew  the  airs  by 
heart,  Julien  snuffed  the  candle  for 
economy.  And  besides,  he  liked  the 
dark.  Seated  at  his  window,  looking  out 
on  the  sky,  he  would  play  in  the  dim 
light.  And  the  passersby  raised  their 
heads,  looking  to  see  whence  this  soft, 
pretty  music  came,  like  the  distant 
call  of  a  nightingale.  The  old  flute  of 
yellow  wood  was  a  little  cracked,  which 
gave  it  a  muffled  tone— the  adorable 
voice  of  a  marquise  of  other  days  still 
singing  the  minuets  of  her  youth.  One 
by  one  the  notes  fluttered  away  as  with 
a  little  flutter  of  wings.  It  seemed  that 
the  song  was  born  of  the  night  itself, 


FOR  A  NIGHT  25 

and  it  mingled  with  the  far-away  sounds 
in  the  shadows. 

Julien  was  very  much  afraid  that 
some  one  of  the  neighbors  would  com- 
plain. But  they  sleep  deep  in  the  coun- 
try. Besides,  the  square  Quatre-Fem- 
mes  was  inhabited  only  by  a  notary,  M. 
Savoumin,  and  a  retired  gendarme  on 
pension.  Captain  Pidoux,  both  very  con- 
venient neighbors,  since  they  were  in 
bed  and  asleep  by  nine  o'clock.  Julien 
feared  still  more  the  occupants  of  a 
noble  mansion,  the  hotel  Marsanne, 
which  rose  on  the  other  side  of  the 
square,  just  opposite  his  windows.  It 
had  a  sombre  grey  facade,  severe  as  a 
cloister.  A  stoop  of  five  steps,  over- 
grown with  moss,  rose  to  a  massive 
door,  studded  mth  enormous  nails.  The 
second  story  was  lined  with  ten 
windows,  whose  blinds  opened  and 
closed  at  once,^  at  regular  hours,  with- 


26  FOE  A  NIGHT 

out  giving  a  glimpse  of  the  apartments 
behind  the  thin  curtains,  always  drawn. 
To  the  left,  the  spreading  chestnut  trees 
of  the  garden  fonned  a  great  mass  of 
green,  stretching  their  waves  of  leaves 
to  the  ramparts.  And  this  imposing 
hotel,  with  its  park,  its  grave  walls,  its 
air  of  royal  ennui,  made  Julien  think 
tliat  if  the  Marsannes  did  not  like  his 
flute  they  had  only  to  say  so  in  order 
to  have  it  stopped. 

The  young  man  was  overcome  with  a 
veneration  as  he  sat  at  his  window; 
the  appointments  of  the  garden  and 
of  the  building  seemed  to  him  so  vast. 
The  hotel  was  celebrated  throughout 
the  countryside,  and  they  said  that 
travelers  came  to  ^dsit  it  from  afar. 
Stories  were  current,  too,  about  the 
wealth  of  the  Marsannes.  Often  he  had 
watched  the  old  pile  to  penetrate  the 
mysteries  of  that  mighty  fortune.    But 


FOR  A  NIGHT  27 

for  all  the  hours  he  dreamed  there  he 
saw  only  the  grey  facade  and  the  great 
shade  of  the  chestnut  trees.  Never  a 
soul  ascended  the  deserted  stooj) ;  never 
did  the  moss-covered  door  open.  The 
Marsannes  had  deserted  this  entrance, 
and  used  a  gate  on  the  street  of  Saint- 
Anne.  Beyond,  at  the  end  of  a  lane, 
near  the  ramparts,  was  a  little  door  to 
the  garden,  which  Julien  could  not  see. 
For  him  the  hotel  remained  dead,  like 
one  of  those  palaces  in  the  fairy  tales 
peopled  with  invisible  beings.  Morning 
and  evening,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
servant's  arm  as  she  opened  or  closed 
the  blinds ;  that  was  all.  Then  the  house 
reassumed  its  air  of  deep  melancholy, 
like  an  abandoned  tomb  in  the  old  part 
of  a  cemetery.  The  chestnut  trees  were 
so  dense  that  they  hid  the  garden  paths. 
And  this  hennetically  sealed  existence 
of    the    hotel,    haughty    and    silent. 


28  FOR  A  NIGHT 

kindled  the  imagination  of  the  young 
man.  So  then,  Avealth  was  this  gloomy 
peace,  which  aroused  in  him  a  religious 
tremor,  like  the  vaulted  arches  of  a 
church. 

How  often,  before  retiring,  he  had 
snuffed  his  candle  and  remained  for  an 
hour  at  his  window,  hoping  to  take  by 
surprise  the  secrets  of  the  hotel  Mar- 
sanne!  At  night,  the  building  was  a 
sombre  silhouette  against  the  sky,  and 
the  chestnut  trees  just  a  sea  of  ink. 
They  must  have  been  very  careful  about 
drawing  the  curtains  inside,  for  not  a 
ray  of  light  escaped  through  the  slats 
of  the  blinds.  The  hotel  did  not  even 
have  that  respiration  of  an  occupied 
house,  where  one  can  feel  the  breathing 
of  the  sleepers.  In  the  dark  it  was  as 
though  it  had  never  been.  Then  it  was 
that  Julien  became  bold  and  took  up  his 
flute.     He  could  play  with  impunity. 


FOR  A  NIGHT  29 

The  empty  hotel  sent  back  the  echo  of 
his  little  pearly  notes.  Certain  long- 
drawn  phrases  lost  themselves  in  the 
shadows  of  the  garden,  where  not  even 
the  beating  of  wings  was  heard.  The 
old  flute  of  yellow  wood  seemed  to  sing 
its  antiquated  melodies  before  the  castle 
of  the  Sleeping  Beauty  of  the  Woods. 

One  Sunday,  in  front  of  the  church, 
a  fellow  employe  of  the  post-office 
pointed  out  to  Julien  a  distinguished 
old  gentleman  and  an  old  lady.  They 
were  the  Marquis  and  Marquise  de  Mar- 
sanne.  They  went  about  so  seldom  that 
he  had  never  seen  them  before.  He  was 
deeply  impressed :  they  seemed  to  him  so 
thin  and  solemn,  measuring  their  steps, 
saluted  with  low  bows  and  acknowledg- 
ing simply  by  a  nod.  Then  his  com- 
panion told  him  that  they  had  a  daugh- 
ter still  at  the  convent,  Mademoiselle 
Therese  de  Marsanne,  and  that  the  little 


30  FOR  A  NIGHT 

Colombel,  clerk  of  M.  Savournin,  the 
notary,  was  her  foster-brother.  And 
surely  enough,  as  the  two  old  people 
were  turning  into  the  street  of  Saint- 
Anne,  little  Colombel  who  was  passing 
approached  them,  and  the  marquis  ex- 
tended his  hand— an  honor  which  he 
had  shown  no  one  else.  This  hand- 
shake pained  Julien;  for  Colombel,  a 
boy  of  twenty,  with  bright  eyes  and  a 
mischievous  mouth,  had  long  been  an 
enemy  of  his.  He  teased  him  about  his 
timidity,  and  urged  the  girls  of  Beau- 
Soleil  against  him.  It  went  so  far  that 
one  day  they  had  come  to  blows,  on  the 
ramparts,  and  the  little  notary's  clerk 
had  gone  away  with  two  black  ej^es. 
Julien  played  his  flute  lower  than  ever 
this  evening  since  he  had  learned  all 
these  details. 

However,  all  the  solicitude  which  the 
hotel  ]\rarsanne  caused  him  did  not  alter 


FOR  A  NIGHT  31 

his  habits,  as  regular  as  clock-work. 
He  went  to  the  office,  liincheoned,  dined 
and  took  his  accustomed  turn  along  the 
bank  of  the  Chanteclair.  The  hotel 
itself,  with  its  great  calm,  entered  into 
the  quiet  of  his  life,  in  the  end.  Two 
years  elapsed.  He  had  become  so  ac- 
customed to  the  grassy  stoop,  to  the  grey 
facade  and  to  the  black  shutters,  that 
they  all  seemed  to  him  matter-of-course, 
quite  necessary  to  the  sleep  of  the  neigh- 
borhood. 

Five  years  Julien  had  been  living  in 
the  square  Quatre-Femm.es,  when  one 
July  evening,  a  certain  event  caused  a 
great  stir  in  his  existence.  The  night 
was  hot  and  starlit.  He  w^as  playing  his 
flute  in  the  dark,  dra^^dng  out  the 
rhythm  and  lingering  on  certain  notes, 
when,  of  a  sudden,  a  window  of  the 
hotel  Marsanne  just  opposite  was 
thrown  open,  and  remained  wide,  bril- 


32  FOR  A  NIGHT 

liantly  lighted  in  contrast  with  the  som- 
bre facade.  xV  j^oimg  girl  had  come  to 
get  a  breath  of  air,  and  she  lingered 
there,  her  delicate  outline  sharp  cut  as 
she  raised  her  head  to  listen.  Julien 
trembled.  He  had  stopped  playing.  He 
could  not  make  out  the  features  of  the 
girl ;  he  saw  only  the  flow  of  her  tresses 
let  down  for  bed.  And  a  gentle  voice 
reached  him  from  out  the  silence: 

''Didn't  you  hear,  Franc^oisc?  I 
could  be  certain  it  vs^as  music. " 

"A  nightingale,  mademoiselle,"  re- 
plied a  coarse  voice  from  within. 
''Close  the  shutters.  'Ware  the  fl}'ing 
things  of  night." 

When  the  fagade  had  become  dark 
again,  Julien  could  not  rise  from  his 
armchair.  His  eyes  still  bore  the  pic- 
ture of  that  bright  spot  which  had  ap- 
peared in  the  facade,  heretofore  blank. 
And  he  still  trembled.    He  asked  him- 


FOR  A  NIGHT  33 

self  whether  he  ought  to  be  glad  of  the 
apparition.  Then,  an  hour  later,  he  be- 
gan to  play  again,  very  softly.  He 
smiled  at  the  idea  that  the  girl  thought 
there  was  a  nigthingale  in  the  chestnut 
trees. 


34  FOR  A  NIGHT 

11. 

Next  day,  at  the  post-office,  the  '.cat 
piece  of  news  was  that  Mademoiselle 
Therese  de  Marsamie  had  just  re- 
turned from  the  convent.  Julien  did 
not  mention  that  he  had  seen  her  with 
her  hair  down  and  neck  bare.  He  was 
uneasy;  he  had  an  unaccountable  aver- 
sion to  this  young  girl,  who  was  sure  to 
interfere  with  the  regularity  of  his 
habits  now.  Anyway,  that  window 
whose  blinds  he  dreaded  to  see  flung 
open  at  any  moment  troubled  him.  He 
could  no  longer  be  comfortable,  even  in 
his  own  room;  a  man  would  not  have 
been  so  bad,  for  women  are  more  given 
to  mocking.  How  could  he  dare  to  play 
his  flute  now*?  Surely  he  played  too 
poorly  to  suit  a  young  lady  who  must 
know  something  about  music.     So,  by 


FOR  A  NIGHT  35 

evening,  after  turning  it  all  over  in  his 
mind,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he 
hated  Therese. 

Julien  entered  his  room  furtively.  He 
did  not  light  the  candle.  So  she  could 
not  see  him,  at  any  rate.  He  decided  to 
go  right  to  bed  because  he  was  in  a  bad 
humor.  But  he  could  not  resist  an  irjo- 
pulse  to  find  out  what  was  going  on 
across  the  way.  The  ^\indow  did  not 
open.  Only,  towards  ten  o'clock,  a  faint 
light  showed  through  the  shutters.  Af- 
ter a  while  it  went  out,  and  he  found 
himself  looking  at  the  dark  windov;. 
Every  evening,  in  spite  of  himself,  he 
began  to  spy.  He  watched  the  hotel 
closely,  and,  as  at  the  beginning,  he 
tried  to  note  any  little  sounds  which 
might  betoken  that  the  old  stones  had 
come  to  life  again.  Nothing  seemed 
changed.  The  ancient  pile  slept,  as  for- 
merly, a  deep  undisturbed  slumber.    It 


36  FOR  A  NIGHT 

would  require  acute  observation  to  de- 
tect any  new  life— as,  for  instance,  on 
rare  occasions,  a  light  passing  by  the 
windows,  the  corner  of  a  curtain  disar- 
ranged or  a  large  chamber  exposed  to 
view.  Again,  at  times,  a  soft  step 
crossed  the  garden ;  the  distant  tones  of 
a  piano,  accompanying  a  voice,  floated 
over;  or  somids  still  more  vague  were 
heard— just  a  quiver,  which  told  that 
yomig  blood  was  pulsing  within  the  old 
house.  Julien  accounted  to  himself  for 
his  curiosity  by  pretending  that  all 
these  goings  on  annoyed  him.  How  he 
looked  back  with  regret  on  the  old  days 
when  the  empty  Iwtel  threw  back  to  him 
the  sweet  echo  of  his  flute ! 

But  one  of  his  most  ardent  vdshes, 
though  he  would  not  admit  it  for  a  mo- 
ment, was  to  see  Therese  again.  He 
pictured  her  with  pink  cheeks,  a  mock- 
ing expression  and  brilliant  eyes.    But 


FOR  A  NIGHT  37 

since  he  did  not  risk  going  near  his 
windows  in  the  daytime,  he  saw  nothing 
but  the  night  and  its  gloomy  shadows. 
One  morning,  as  he  was  throwing  open 
his  shutters  to  let  in  the  sun,  he  caught 
a  glimpse  of  her  standing  in  the  middle 
of  her  room.  He  remained  rooted  to  the 
spot,  not  daring  to  move.  She  seemed  to 
be  in  meditation,  very  tall,  very  pale, 
with  handsome  regular  features.  He 
■was  almost  afraid  of  her— she  was  so 
different  from  the  sprightly  picture  he 
had  imagined.  Her  mouth  was  a  little 
large  and  very  red ;  her  eyes  were  deep 
black  and  without  lustre,  which  gave  her 
the  appearance  of  a  cruel  queen.  Slowly 
she  came  to  the  window.  But  she  did 
not  see  him— as  though  he  were  too  far 
off.  Then  she  walked  away  again,  and 
her  rhythmic  carriage  was  so  graceful 
that  he  felt  weaker  than  a  child  in  her 
presence,  despite  his  broad  shoulders. 


38  FOR  A  NIGHT 

And  now,  the  young  man's  very  exis- 
'tence  became  miserable.  This  beautiful 
young  lady,  grave  and  dignified,  who 
lived  so  near  him,  was  his  despair.  She 
never  looked  at  him;  she  ignored  his 
being.  But  it  made  matters  no  better 
when  he  imagined  she  noticed  him  and 
found  him  lidiculous.  His  unhealthy 
bashfulncss  led  him  to  believe  that 
she  was  actually  sprang  on  his  every 
move,  to  make  fun  of  him.  He  slipped 
into  his  house  like  a  thief  and  avoided 
moving  about  his  room.  Finally,  by 
the  end  of  a  month,  he  w^as  really 
suffering  from  the  disdain  of  this  girl. 
Why  did  she  never  notice  him?  She 
would  come  to  the  window,  sweep  her 
black  eyes  along  the  deserted  street 
and  withdraw  without  seeming  to  be 
aware  of  him,  as  he  stood  quivering 
across  the  way.  And  just  as  he  had  for- 
merly trembled  at  the  idea  of  being  seen 


FOR  A  NIGHT  39 

by  her,  he  now  yearned  with  all  his 
heart  that  she  should  turn  her  eyes  upon 
hhn.  She  had  come  to  occupy  every 
hour  of  his  life. 

When  Therese  arose  in  the  morning 
he  forgot  the  office,  he  who  had  been  so 
punctual.  He  was  afraid  of  that  white 
face  with  the  red  lips ;  but  the  fear  was 
delicious:  he  enjoyed  it.  Hidden  be- 
hind his  curtain,  he  thrilled  with  the 
terror  which  she  inspired,  until  he  felt 
ill  and  his  legs  went  w^eak,  as  though  he 
had  walked  over  far.  Sometimes  he 
pretended  that  she  had  noticed  him,  all 
of  a  sudden,  and  that  she  smiled,  and 
that  his  fear  was  all  gone. 

And  then  the  idea  struck  him  to  win 
her  with  his  flute.  All  through  the 
warm  evenings  he  played  patiently.  He 
left  both  windows  open  and  played  in 
the  dark— his  oldest  melodies,  pas- 
torals, simple  as  a  child's  ditties.    He 


40  FOR  A  NIGHT 

held  the  notes,  and  they  trembled  and 
followed  one  another  in  plaintive  ca- 
dences, like  love-sick  ladies  of  the  olden 
time  holding  out  their  skirts  for  a  curt- 
sey. He  chose  the  nights  when  there 
was  no  moon.  The  square  was  dark; 
no  one  could  possibly  know  where  this 
sweet  song  came  from,  brushing  by  the 
sleeping  houses  like  the  soft  wing  of  a 
Dird  of  the  night.  And  on  the  very  first 
evening,  he  was  enraptured  to  see 
Therese,  robed  for  bed,  all  in  white, 
come  to  the  window  and  rest  her  elbows 
on  the  sill,  surprised  to  hear  once  more 
that  music  which  had  greeted  her  on  the 
night  of  her  arrival. 

"Listen,  Fran^oise,''  she  said  in  her 
low  voice,  turning  back  into  the  room. 
"It  isn't  a  bird.'* 

"Oh,  it  must  be  some  minstrel  play- 
ing on  the  road,  far  away,"  answered 


FOR  A  NIGHT  41 

the  old  woman,  whom  Julien  could 
just  make  out  by  her  shadow. 

"Yes.  Very  far  away,''  repeated  the 
girl,  after  a  pause,  baring  her  arms  to 
the  freshness  of  the  night. 

Thereafter,  every  evening  Julien 
played  a  little  louder.  His  lips  burned 
with  the  music,  and  their  warmth  passed 
into  the  old  flute  of  yellow  wood.  And 
each  night  Therese  wondered  at  this 
passionate  music,  which  seemed  to  be 
waiting  to  take  a  step  nearer.  She  was 
quite  certain  that  the  player  was  com- 
ing closer  to  her  window ;  sometimes  she 
stood  on  tiptoes  to  look  over  the  house- 
tops. Finally,  one  night,  the  song 
seemed  so  very  near  that  she  was  quite 
bewildered.  She  guessed  it  cam^e  from 
one  of  the  sleeping  houses  on  the  square. 
Julien  breathed  out  all  his  passion,  and 
the  old  flute  responded  with  tones  of 
crystal.    The  darlaiess  made  him  so  bold 


42  FOR  A  NIGHT 

that  lie  hoped  to  bring  her  over  to  him- 
self by  the  sheer  strength  of  his  music. 
And,  surely  enough,  Therese  leaned  far 
out,  as  though  charmed  and  conquered. 

*'Come  in,'^  said  the  voice  of  the  old 
woman.  *'A  storm  is  brewing,  and  you 
won't  sleep  well." 

Tliat  night  Julien  could  not  sleep  at 
all.  He  imagined  that  Therese  had 
found  him  out.  Perhaps  she  had 
actually  seen  him !  And  as  he  tossed  in 
his  bed  he  wondered  whether  he  ought 
not  to  show  himself  in  the  morning. 
Surely  it  would  be  ridiculous  to  hide 
from  her  any  longer.  However,  he  de- 
cided not  to  be  seen. 

But  he  happend  to  be  at  his  window 
at  six  o'clock,  putting  his  flute  back  in 
the  case,  when  Therese 's  shutters  were 
hastily  pushed  open.  The  girl,  who 
never  arose  before  eight  o'clock,  ap- 
peared at  the  window  in  a  dressing- 


FOR  A  NIGHT  43 

sacque  and  leaned  on  the  sill,  her  hair 
down  about  her  shoulders.  Julien  was 
struck  dumb,  looking  her  right  in  the 
face  and  unable  to  turn  away;  and  all 
the  while  his  awkward  hands  were  striv- 
ing vainly  to  carry  the  flute  to  his  lips. 
Therese,  too,  studied  him,  with  a  steady 
and  superior  air.  In  a  moment  she 
seemed  to  take  in  his  coarse  frame  and 
unwieldy  body,  with  all  its  awkward- 
ness and  ugliness  of  a  bashful  giant. 
And  she  was  no  longer  the  emotional 
girl  of  the  evening  before.  She  was 
haughty  and  very  white,  with  her  black 
eyes  and  her  red  lips.  When  she  had 
passed  upon  him,  as  nonchalantly  as  she 
would  have  decided  whether  a  dog  in 
the  street  pleased  her  or  not,  she  con- 
demned him  with  an  almost  impercep- 
tible movement.  Then,  turning  her 
back  leisurely,  closed  the  window. 
Julien 's    legs    gave    way    and    he 


44  FOR  A  NIGHT 

dropped  into  his  armchair.  BrokeJi 
sentences  fell  from  him.  "Ah,  heaven! 
She  does  not  like  me !  I  who  love  her— 
I— I— It  will  kill  me!"  He  rocked  his 
head  betwen  his  hands  and  sobbed. 
"VMiy,  why  had  he  let  her  see  him! 
When  a  man  is  ungainly  he  should  hide 
himself,  and  not  frighten  women!  He 
abused  himself,  furious  at  his  ugliness. 
And  now  it  was  really  true  that  he  could 
no  longer  go  on  playing  his  flute  in  the 
dark,  like  a  bird  of  the  night,  which 
radishes  the  heart  by  its  song,  but  which 
must  never  be  seen  by  daylight  if  it 
would  please?  He  would  gladly  have 
remained  to  her  a  sweet  song,  nothing 
but  an  old-time  melody  of  a  mysterious 
love.  He  would  gladly  have  worshipped 
her  without  ever  meeting  her,  like  a 
Prince  Charming  come  from  afar  and 
dying  of  the  tender  passion  under  her 
window.    But  he  had  broken  the  spell 


FOR  A  NIGHT  45 

in  Ms  coarseness  and  folly.  Now  she 
knew  him  to  be  as  clumsy  as  an  ox,  she 
would  never  listen  to  his  music  again ! 

And  so  it  was.  He  might  play  his 
tenderest  airs,  he  might  choose  the 
warmest  evenings,  balmy  with  the  odor 
of  the  foliage,  Therese  would  not  listen 
—did  not  hear  him.  She  went  to  and 
fro  in  her  room  and  sat  at  her  window, 
just  as  though  there  were  nobody  across 
the  way  trying  to  sing  his  love  in  plain- 
tive little  notes.  One  day,  she  even 
cried:  *' Mercy!  How  annoying  that 
flute  is,  with  its  false  notes!"  And 
thereupon  he  threw  it  into  the  bottom 
of  a  drawer  and  never  played  again. 

It  should  also  be  said  that  little  Col- 
ombel  made  fun  of  him.  Once,  on  his 
way  to  the  notary's,  he  had  looked  up 
at  the  window  and  had  seen  Julien  prac- 
tising a  new  tmie,  and  every  time  he 
passed   thereafter   he   laughed   malic- 


46  FOR  A  NIGHT 

iously.  Julien  knew  that  the  notary's 
clerk  was  rer^^ived  by  the  Marsannes, 
and  this  rilec.  iiim— not  because  he  was 
merely  jealous  of  this  little  abortion,  but 
that  he  would  have  given  everj^  drop  of 
his  blood  to  be  in  his  place  for  an  honr. 
Colombel's  mother,  Fran^oise,  had  been 
in  tlie  service  of  the  house  for  many 
years,  and  attended  Mademoiselle 
Therese  now.  x\nd  besides,  the  young 
noblewoman  and  the  little  peasant-fel- 
low had  growTi  up  together,  and  it  was 
but  natural  that  they  should  continue 
something  of  their  old  comradeship. 
Julien  suffered  all  the  more  when  he 
met  Colombel  in  the  streets,  his  lips 
screwed  up  in  a  thin  smile.  And  his 
repulsion  becam.e  still  greater  when  he 
realised  that  the  abortion  had  a  pretty 
face,  a  round  head  like  a  cat's,  but  very 
delicate,  engaging  and  diabolical;  his 
eyes  Avere  green  and  he  wore  a  thin, 


FOR  A  NIGHT  47 

sandy  beard  on  his  pointed  chin.  Oh,  if 
he  could  onl}^  catch  him  now  at  a  corner 
of  the  ramparts,  how  he  would  make 
him  pay  for  the  pleasure  of  meeting 
Therese  at  home! 

A  year  slipped  by.  Julien  was  very 
unhappy.  He  lived  only  for  Therese. 
His  heart  went  out  to  that  icy  hotel 
across  the  waj^,  which  had  aroused  his 
aw^kw^ard  love.  Every  moment  he  had 
to  spare  he  came  to  spend  here,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  side  of  that  grey  wall. 
He  knew  every  clod  of  moss  by  heart. 
Little  good  it  did  him,  these  long 
months,  to  keep  his  eyes  open  and  his 
ears  intent;  he  learned  nothing  what- 
ever of  the  inside  of  that  solemn  man- 
sion, where  his  heart  was  imprisoned. 
Vague  sounds,  flitting  lights  drew  Mm 
to  his  feet.  Did  they  mean  feasts  or 
mourning?  He  could  not  tell.  All  its 
active  life  was  confined  to  the  other 


48  FOR  A  NIGHT 

wing.  He  coiild  dream  whatever  he 
pleased,  according  to  his  moods.  He 
imagined  her  entertaining  Colombel,  or 
walking  slowly  imder  the  shade  of  the 
chestnut  trees,  or  whirled  in  the  arms  of 
dancers,  or  sitting  alone  in  quiet  halls 
to  weep  over  some  girlish  disappoint- 
ment. Perhaps  it  was  only  the  mincing 
step  of  the  marquis  or  the  marquise  trot- 
ting across  the  old  floors  that  he  imag- 
ined he  heard.  But,  in  spite  of  his  utter 
ignorance,  there  was  always  her  window 
in  the  wall  across  the  way,  before  his 
eyes.  Every  day  he  saw  Therese,  mute 
as  a  stone,  without  the  slightest  sign 
to  raise  hope  in  his  bosom.  She  awed 
him:  she  remained  so  completely  un- 
kno^Ti,  so  far  away  from  him. 

Julien's  great  occasions  were  when 
the  window  remained  open.  Then  he 
could  get  a  glimpse  of  the  corners  of 
her  room,  while  the  girl  was  away.    It 


FOR  A  NIGHT  49 

took  six  months  for  Mm  to  learn  that 
the  bed  was  on  the  left,  in  an  alcove, 
with  pink  silk  curtains.  At  the  end  of 
another  six  months  he  knew  that  across 
from  the  bed  was  a  Louis  XV.  bureau, 
topped  with  a  mirror  in  a  porcelain 
frame.  Straight  across  he  could  see  the 
white  marble  fireplace.  This  room  was 
his  dream  of  paradise. 

His  love  was  not  without  struggles. 
For  weeks  he  would  keep  himself  hid- 
den, ashamed  of  his  ugliness.  Then 
anger  would  seize  him.  He  felt  he  must 
show  his  great  body ;  he  must  thrust  into 
prominence  his  ugly  face,  seared  with 
the  marks  of  an  old  fever.  At  such 
times  he  would  keep  coming  to  the  win- 
dow for  weeks,  and  weary  her  with  his 
presence.  Twice,  he  even  threw  her 
burning  kisses,  with  the  brutality  of 
bashful  people  when  sudden  boldness 
carries  them  away. 


50  FOR  A  NIGHT 

Therese  did  not  even  seem  to  be  an- 
noyed. From  his  concealment  lie  saw 
her  come  and  go,  with  her  regal  air, 
haughtier  and  colder  than  ever.  He 
was  never  able  to  catch  her  off  her 
guard.  If  she  happened  to  meet  his 
glance,  she  did  not  even  hasten  to  turn 
away.  He  simi:»ly  did  not  exist  for  her. 
AVhen  he  heard  it  said  at  the  post-office 
that  ]\Iademoiselle  de  Marsanne  was 
very  j^ious  and  very  good,  sometimes  he 
protested  violently  to  himself.  No! 
No!  She  was  without  religion!  She 
loved  blood ;  that  was  why  her  lips  were 
so  red!  And  the  jDallor  of  her  com- 
plexion came  from  mistiTisting  every- 
body! Then  he  would  weep  because  he 
had  insulted  her,  and  beg  grace,  as 
though  she  were  a  saint  ^^Tapped  in  the 
purify"  of  her  wings. 

During  that  first  year,  day  followed 
day    without    bringing    any    change. 


FOR  A  NIGHT  51 

When  summer  cam^e  again  he  experi- 
enced a  strange  sensation.  Therese 
seemed  to  live  in  another  world.  The 
little  incidents  were  alwaj^s  the  same— 
the  shutters  flung  open  in  the  morning 
and  drawn  in  at  evening,  and  her  usual 
appearances  at  the  accustomed  hours. 
But  a  different  breath  seemed  to  be  ex- 
haled by  that  room.  Therese  was  paler 
than  ever,  taller  than  ever.  One  day  he 
dared  for  the  third  time  to  throw  her 
a  kiss  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers.  She 
looked  straight  at  him  fixedl}^  with  that 
discomforting  gravity  of  hers,  and  did 
not  withdraw  from  the  window.  He 
was  the  one  to  shrink,  his  face  purple 
with  a  blush. 

One  thing,  toward  the  end  of  the  sum- 
mer, moved  him  deeply,  although  it 
might  be  commonplace  enough.  About 
twilight,  almost  every  day,  Therese 's 
window  which  had  been  left  partly  open 


52  FOR  A  NIGHT 

was  slammed  to,  so  the  sash  and  latch 
rattled.  This  noise  made  Jnlien  trem- 
ble with  a  sort  of  horror;  and  he  was 
tortured  with  anguish,  without  being 
able  to  tell  why.  After  this  rough  shock 
the  house  would  become  so  quiet  that 
he  was  afraid  of  the  silence.  For  a  long 
while  he  could  not  make  out  the  arm 
which  closed  the  window  so,  but  one  eve- 
ning he  recognized  the  pale  hands  of 
Therese.  It  was  she  who  turned  the 
latch  so  furiously.  And  when  she 
would  open  the  window  again,  an  hour 
later,  she  did  so  without  haste,  with  dig- 
nity; she  seemed  tired  and  rested  for  a 
moment.  And  then  she  would  walk 
back  to  the  centre  of  her  pure  chamber, 
busied  with  the  little  tasks  of  a  young 
girl.  Julien  was  at  a  loss;  the  violent 
creaking  of  the  window  latch  kept  run- 
ning through  his  head. 

One  evening  in  particular,  in  the  au- 


FOR  A  NIGHT  53 

tumn,  when  the  weather  was  soft  and 
gentle,  the  latch  received  a  frightful 
twist.  Julien  shook  and  tears  started  to 
his  eyes,  as  he  stood  before  the  hotel, 
which  the  shadows  were  fast  swallowing 
up.  It  had  been  raining  in  the  morning, 
and  the  chestnut  trees,  half  dry,  exhaled 
an  odor  of  death.  Julien  was  waiting 
for  the  window  to  open  again.  Sud- 
denly it  was  flung  open  as  violently  as  it 
had  been  closed.  Theresa  appeared.  She 
was  perfectly  white,  her  eyes  looked 
very  wide,  and  her  hair  tumbled  about 
her  neck.  She  came  and  stood  right  in 
front  of  the  window.  Then  she  delib- 
erately pressed  her  ten  fingers  to  her 
red  lips  and  threw  a  kiss  to  Julien. 

Aghast,  he  struck  his  breast  with  his 
fists,  as  though  to  ask  if  that  kiss  could 
have  been  meant  for  him.  Therese 
thought  he  was  drawing  back.  She 
leaned  further  out,  and  pressing  her  ten 


54  FOR  A  NIGHT 

fingers  to  lier  red  lips  again,  threw  him 
another  kiss.  And  then  a  third.  It  was 
as  though  she  were  responding  to  the 
three  kisses  he  had  sent  her.  He  re- 
mained breathless.  The  twilight  was 
clear,  and  he  could  see  her  distinctly 
outlined  against  the  black  of  the  open 
window.  She  glanced  up  and  down  the 
little  square.  Then  in  a  smothered 
voice  she  said  one  word:  "Come." 

He  hurried  dowTi  and  crossed  to  the 
hotel.  As  he  raised  his  head  the  door 
opened  slightly— that  moss-gro^^^l  door 
which  had  been  bolted  for  half-a-cen- 
oury  perhaps.  But  he  was  walking  in  a 
france;  he  was  no  longer  astonished  at 
anything.  As  soon  as  he  wag  inside  the 
door  was  closed,  and  he  followed  a  little 
hand,  ice-cold,  which  led  the  way.  He 
mounted  a  flight  of  steps,  crossed  a  cor- 
ridor, passed  through  a  first  chamber, 
and  then  foimd  himself  in  one  he  knew 


FOR  A  NIGHT  55 

well.  It  was  his  dream-paradise,  the 
room  with  the  pink  silk  curtains.  Day- 
light was  dying  here  with  a  sweet 
lingering.  He  was  tempted  to  drop  on 
his  knees.  But  Therese  stood  before 
him  very  straight,  her  hands  tightly 
clasped— so  resolute  that  she  conquered 
a  shudder  which  was  coming  over  her. 

*'You  love  me?"  she  asked  in  a  low 
voice. 

*'0h,  yes!— Yes!— Yes!"  he  stam- 
mered. 

But  with  a  gesture  she  bade  him 
waste  no  words.  She  spoke  again,  with 
a  dignity  which  seemed  to  make  what 
she  said  natural  and  chaste,  even  on  the 
lips  of  a  young  girl. 

"If  I  give  myself  to  you,  you  wiU  do 
whatever  I  ask;  won't  you?" 

He  could  not  speak,  he  clasped  his 
hands.  For  one  kiss  he  would  sell  his 
soul. 


56  FOR  A  NIGHT 

**Vefy  well.  I  have  something  to  ask 
of  j^ou. '  ^ 

Since  he  remained  speechless,  she 
seemed  to  be  struck  by  a  new  thought, 
realizing  that  she  had  exhausted  her  re- 
soui'ces  and  that  she  could  dare  no  more, 
she  cried: 

''See!— You  must  swear  first.— I 
swear  to  keep  my  bargain.— Swear! 
Swear!" 

''Oh,  I  swear!  Oh,  anything  you 
wish!''  he  replied,  completely  carried 
away. 

The  fragrance  of  the  chamber  intox- 
icated him.  The  curtains  of  the  alcove 
were  drawn,  and  the  bare  thought  of  the 
\drgin  bed  in  the  subdued  shadow  of 
pink  silk  filled  him  with  an  ecstasy. 
And  then  with  her  hands,  now  strangely 
brutal,  she  tore  aside  the  curtains  and 
revealed  the  alcove,  where  the  twilight 
left  a  doubtful  glow.     The  bed  was  in 


FOR  A  NIGHT  57 

disorder;  the  covering  trailed  over  the 
edge  and  a  pillow  had  fallen  to  the  floor. 
In  the  midst  of  the  rumpled  laces  lay 
the  dead  body  of  a  man,  barefoot,  across 
the  bed. 

** There!"  she  explained  in  a  stifled 
voice.  ''That  man  was  my  lover.— I 
pushed  him.— He  fell.— I  don't  know 
any  more.— But  he  is  dead.  And  you 
must  get  rid  of  him.  You  understand ; 
don't  you?  That's  all.  Yes.  That's 
all." 


58  FOR  A  NIGHT 

III. 

'When  she  was  still  a  very  little  girl, 
Therese  de  Marsanne  made  Colombel 
her  fag.  He  was  barely  six  months 
older  than  she,  and  Fran^oise,  his 
mother,  had  managed  to  bring  him  up 
on  the  bottle,  so  as  to  nurse  the  girl. 
Later,  having  grown  up  in  the  house,  he 
occupied  a  nondescript  position— some- 
thing between  a  servant  and  a  playfel- 
low for  the  young  girl. 

Therese  was  a  vixen.  Not  that  she 
was  a  tomboy  or  boisterous ;  on  the  con- 
trar}%  she  maintained  a  singular  grav- 
ity, which  led  visitors,  to  v/hom  she  was 
very  courteous,  to  regard  her  as  an  ex- 
ceedingly well-mannered  child.  But 
she  had  strange  ways.  "VAHien  she  was 
alone  she  would  suddenly  break  forth 
with  inarticulate  cries  and  foolish  srrim- 


FOR  A  NIGHT  59 

aces,  or  else  she  would  lie  down  on  her 
back  in  the  middle  of  a  path  in  the 
garden  and  refuse  to  get  up,  in  spite  of 
all  persuasion  or  correction.  They 
could  never  tell  what  she  was  thinking 
of.  Even  in  her  large  baby  eyes  there 
was  not  the  slightest  sparkle;  and,  in- 
stead of  those  clear  mirrors  where  you 
can  read  so  accurately  the  whole  soul  of 
a  child,  her  eyes  were  sombre  bottom- 
less pits,  as  black  as  ink,  which  it  was 
impossible  to  fathom. 

At  the  age  of  six  she  commenced  to 
torture  Colombel.  He  was  puny  and 
under-sized.  She  would  take  him  to  the 
far  end  of  the  garden,  under  the  chest- 
nut trees,  to  a  spot  concealed  by  foliage, 
and  leaping  upon  his  back  make  him 
carry  her.  It  was  an  hour's  trip  for 
them  around  a  large  circle.  She  choked 
him  and  spurred  him  with  her  heels, 
without  even  giving  him  a  breathing 


60  FOR  A  NIGHT 

spell.  He  was  the  horse;  she  was  the 
ladv.  And  when  he  was  overcome  and 
seemed  about  to  sink,  she  would  bite  his 
ear  until  it  bled,  and  cling  to  him  so 
furiously  that  her  little  nails  sank  into 
his  flesh.  Then  he  would  spurt  off  at  a 
gallop  again,  and  the  cruel  little  queen 
of  six  years  flew  in  and  out  among  the 
trees,  her  hair  streaming  in  the  wind, 
carried  by  the  little  boy  who  was  her 
horse. 

Later  she  used  to  pinch  him,  even  in 
the  presence  of  her  parents;  but  she 
forbade  him  to  cry,  under  the  continual 
threat  of  having  him  put  out  of  the 
house  if  he  mentioned  their  amuse- 
ments. And  so  they  had  a  sort  of  secret, 
a  manner  when  they  were  alone 
together,  which  was  completely  changed 
in  company.  When  they  were  alone  she 
treated  him  like  a  toy,  with  a  desire  to 
break  him  and  see  what  was  inside. 


FOR  A  NIGHT  61 

Was  she  not  a  marquise,  and  was  she 
not  used  to  seeing  people  at  her  feet? 
And  since  they  gave  her  a  little  boy  to 
play  with,  surely  she  could  use  him  as 
she  pleased.  When  she  got  tired  of 
queening  it  over  Colombel,  when  no  one 
was  looking,  she  took  the  livelier  pleas- 
ure of  kicking  him  or  sticking  a  pin  in 
his  arm ;  but  she  so  magnetized  him  with 
her  sombre  eyes  that  he  did  not  even 
quiver. 

Colombel  stood  this  martyr's  life  with 
mxUte  revolts  which  left  him  trembling, 
eyes  rooted  upon  the  ground  to  over- 
come the  temptation  of  strangling  his 
young  mistress.  But  he,  too,  was  of  a 
surly  temperament.  It  did  not  displease 
him  to  be  beaten.  He  found  it  a  sort 
of  pleasure  and  even  courted  it,  await- 
ing her  onslaught  with  a  wild  shudder, 
strangely  satisfied  when  he  felt  the  sting 
of  the  pin.    And  besides,  he  revelled  in 


62  FOR  A  NIGHT 

hatred.  Sonietinies  he  took  his  revenge 
straightway,  and  dropped  on  the  pave- 
ment carrying  Therese  with  him,  fear- 
less of  breaking  a  limb,  delighted  when 
she  received  a  brnise.  If  he  did  not  cry 
when  she  pricked  him  in  company,  it 
was  so  nobody  should  come  between 
them.  It  w^as  an  affair  which  concerned 
the  two  of  them  only,  a  quarrel  in  which 
he  was  sure  that  he  should  prove  the 
victor  later  on. 

How^ever,  the  marquis  was  becoming 
uneasy  about  the  violent  behavior  of  his 
daughter.  They  said  she  resembled  one 
of  her  uncles,  w^ho  had  led  a  terrible 
life  of  adventure  and  who  met  his  death 
by  assassination  in  a  bad  spot,  at  the  end 
of  a  faubourg.  The  Marsannes  had 
quite  a  tragic  strand  in  their  family 
history.  Certain  of  its  members,  from 
time  to  time,  were  bom  with  a  strange 
failing,  out  of  the  regular  line  with  its 


FOR  A  NIGHT  63 

haughty  dignity;  and  this  failing  was 
like  a  strain  of  madness,  a  perversion  of 
the  sentiments,  a  bad  froth  which 
seemed  for  the  time  to  mar  the  family 
blood.  And  so,  the  marquis  thought  it 
the  part  of  prudence  to  subject  Therese 
to  a  strenuous  education,  and  he 
placed  her  in  a  convent,  where  he  hoped 
that  the  rigorous  rule  ^vould  bend  her 
nature.  There  she  had  remained  until 
she  was  eighteen. 

When  Therese  returned  she  was  very 
staid  and  tall.  Her  parents  were  de- 
lighted to  find  her  profoundly  pious.  In 
church  she  was  absorbed,  her  face  be- 
tw^een  her  hands.  At  home  she  diffused 
the  charm  of  innocence  and  peace. 
They  had  only  one  fault  to  find ;  she  was 
a  gourmand,  and  ate  candies  from 
morning  to  night.  She  had  a  way  of 
sucking  them,  her  eyes  half  closed,  with 
a  little  thrill  of  her  red  li^DS.    No  one 


64  FOR  A  NIGHT 

would  have  recognized  the  surly  child 
who  used  to  come  back  from  the  garden 
in  tatters  and  would  never  tell  at  what 
game  she  had  torn  her  frock.  Now  the 
marquis  and  marquise,  shut  up  for  fif- 
teen years  in  their  vast  empty  hotel, 
thought  it  their  duty  to  entertain  once 
more.  They  gave  several  dinners  to  the 
nobility  of  the  province.  They  even 
gave  a  dance.  Their  purpose,  of  course, 
was  to  marry  Therese.  And,  in  spite  of 
her  coldness,  she  appeared  quite  oblig- 
ing. She  dressed  and  waltzed ;  but  her 
face  was  so  white  that  she  made  the 
young  men  who  presmned  to  court  her 
very  uneasy. 

Therese  never  mentioned  little  Co- 
lombel.  The  marquis  had  taken  an  in- 
terest in  him  and  placed  him  with  M. 
Savoui-nin,  with  special  instructions. 
One  day  Frangoise  brought  the  yoimg 
people  together,  reminding  Therese  of 


FOR  A  NIGHT  65 

her  former  playmate.  Colombel  was 
smiling,  very  dapper  and  not  in  the 
least  embarrassed.  Therese  looked  at 
him  coldly,  said  she  remembered  him, 
and  then  turned  her  back.  But  eight 
days  later  Colombel  came  again,  and 
soon  he  fell  into  his  old  ways.  He  vis- 
ited the  hotel  every  evening  after  his 
studies  for  the  day  were  ended  and 
brought  Therese  new  music  and  books 
and  albums.  He  was  treated  inconse- 
quentially and  sent  errands  like  a  ser- 
vant or  a  poor  relative.  He  became  a  de- 
pendence of  the  household.  And  so  quite 
naturally  he  was  often  alone  with  the 
young  girl.  As  before,  they  shut  them- 
selves up  in  large  apartments  for  fun, 
and  remained  for  hours  in  the  shady 
spots  of  the  garden.  Of  course,  they 
didn't  play  at  the  old  games.  Therese 
walked  slowly,  trailing  her  skirt  over 
the  grass.     Colombel,  dressed  like  the 


66  FOR  A  NIGHT 

best  YOimg  men  in  town,  walked  with 
her,  tapping  the  gronnd  with  the  little 
flexible  cane  he  always  carried. 

Nevertheless,  she  was  the  queen  and 
he  the  slave  as  much  as  ever.  To  be 
sure,  she  did  not  bite  him  any  longer; 
but  she  had  a  way  of  walking  close  to 
him  which  belittled  him  and  turned 
him  into  a  page  holding  the  train  of  his 
royal  mistress.  She  tortured  him  by 
her  fantastic  humors,  now^  showing  ut- 
ter abandon  in  the  extraordinary  things 
she  said,  and  again  stiffening  into  cold- 
ness—just to  amuse  herself.  AVhen  her 
back  was  turned  he  shot  piercing 
glances  at  her,  sharp  as  a  dagger,  and 
revealed  his  true  nature  of  a  vicious 
boy  meditating  treachery. 

One  summer  evening,  when  they  had 
])een  walking  for  a  long  while  in  the 
heavy  shadows  of  the  chestnut  trees, 


FOR  A  NIGHT  67 

Therese  turned  to  him,  after  a  silence, 
and  said,  with  all  gravity : 

*'I  am  tired,  Colombel.  Suppose  you 
were  to  carry  me  as  you  used  to  do.— 
You  remember?'* 

He  smiled  a  little,  then  replied  quite 
seriously : 

**I  am  willing,  Therese." 

But  she  walked  on,  simply  remark- 
ing: 

'  *  Very  well.    I  onlj^  w^anted  to  know. ' ' 

They  continued  their  stroll.  The 
shades  of  evening  were  falling  deep  un- 
der the  trees.  The}^  were  talking  of  a 
lady  of  the  town  who  had  just  married  a 
military  man.  As  they  were  about  to 
enter  a  path  narrower  than  the  rest,  the 
young  man  stepped  aside  to  allow^  her 
to  precede.  But  she  struck  him  \do- 
lently  and  made  him  walk  before  her. 
Now   neither   spoke.      Then   suddenly 


68  FOE  A  NIGHT 

Therese  leapt  upon  his  shoulders  with 
all  her  old-time  agility  of  a  wild  cat. 

"Now  off!"  she  cried,  in  a  changed 
voice,  choked  with  fury.  She  had 
snatched  away  his  cane  and  was  bran- 
dishing it  about  his  legs.  Clinging  tight 
to  his  shoulders,  almost  choking  him  be- 
tween her  mature  thighs,  she  drove  him 
madly  into  the  dark  shadows  of  the 
thicket.  And  she  kept  whipping  him  to 
make  him  go  faster.  Colombel  galloped 
furiously  over  the  grass.  He  did  not  say 
a  word;  he  only  panted  and  stiffened 
his  legs  imder  the  warm  burden  of  this 
big  girl  which  was  bearing  heavy  on 
his  neck. 

But  when  she  cried  "Whoa!"  he  did 
not  stop.  He  galloped  still  faster.  His 
hands,  clasped  behind  her,  held  her  so 
tight  that  she  could  not  leap  doT\Ta.  The 
horse  was  running  away  with  his  mis- 
tress.    Suddenly,  in  spite  of  her  lash- 


FOR  A  NIGHT  69 

ing  with  the  cane  and  her  scratching, 
he  swerved  toward  a  pagoda,  where  the 
gardener  kept  his  tools.  There  he  threw 
her  on  the  straw  and  had  his  way  with 
her.  At  last  his  turn  to  rule  had  come. 
Aftei-wards  Therese  was  a  little  paler 
than  usual,  her  lips  were  redder  and  her 
eyes  blacker.  She  continued  her  life 
of  religious  devotion.  A  few  days 
later  the  whole  scene  was  re-enacted. 
She  leapt  on  ColombePs  shoulders, 
wishing  to  crush  him,  and  ended  by 
being  thrown  on  the  straw  of  the  pagoda 
again.  In  public,  she  was  very  gracious 
to  him  and  treated  him  with  the  su- 
periority of  an  elder  sister.  He  was 
smilingly  polite.  They  remained,  as 
they  had  been  at  six  years  of  age, 
two  vicious  beasts  turned  loose,  amusing 
themselves  by  biting  each  other  in 
secret.  Only  now  the  male  was  the  vic- 
tor. 


70  FOE  A  NIGHT 

Their  love  was  terrible.  Later  The- 
rese  received  liim  in  lier  chamber.  She 
had  given  him  a  key  to  the  little  gate 
in  the  garden  which  opened  on  the  path 
from  the  ramparts.  At  night  he  had  to 
pass  through  an  outer  room,  in  which 
his  own  mother  slept.  But  the  lovers 
showed  such  audacious  presence  of 
mind  that  no  one  suspected  them  for  an 
instant.  They  dared  even  to  have  tryst 
in  the  da3i:ime.  Colombel  came  before 
dinner,  and  Therese  only  closed  the 
window.  The  desire  to  be  together 
was  always  upon  them— not  to  whis- 
per the  tender  love-words  of  lovers 
of  twenty,  but  to  take  up  the  hot  com- 
bat of  their  pride  and  sex.  Oftentimes 
a  quarrel  sprang  up,  and  they  abused 
one  another  in  low  tones.  More  often 
they  were  faii'ly  trembling  with  rage 
that  they  could  not  cry  out  and  fight. 

And  so,  one  evening,  before  dinner, 


FOR  A  NIGHT  71 

Colombel  had  come  as  usual.  "While  he 
was  walking  up  and  down  the  room,  he 
had  a  sudden  whim  to  seize  Therese  and 
have  his  way  by  main  force,  then 
and  there.  Therese  struggled  to  free 
herself,  crying: 

"Let  go!  You  know  I'm  stronger 
than  you.    I'll  hurt  you!'* 

Colombel  only  laughed.  "Very  well, 
hurt  me, ' '  he  murmured. 

He  kept  swinging  her  about  to  throw 
her.  Then  she  grappled  with  him. 
They  had  often  played  at  this  game,  to 
satisfy  their  craving  for  fight.  Often- 
est  it  was  Colombel  who  fell  first, 
breathless,  his  limbs  lax  and  worn  out. 
He  was  so  little  she  would  gather  him 
up  and  crush  him  against  her  body. 

But  this  time  Therese  slipped  to  her 
knees,  and  Colombel  with  a  sudden  push 
threw  her  back.  He  was  on  top  in 
triumph. 


72  FOR  A  NIGHT 

''You  see  now,  you  are  not  the 
stronger,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  tantal- 
izing sniile. 

She  had  become  livid.  She  got  up 
slowly  and  grappled  with  him  again, 
without  a  word.  She  shook  so  with 
anger  that  he  shuddered.  Oh,  to  crush 
him !  To  have  done  with  him !  To  see 
him  there  lifeless— beaten  forever!  For 
a  moment  they  struggled  in  silence, 
their  breath  came  hot  and  fast,  their 
limbs  cracked  under  the  strain.  It  was 
no  longer  play.  The  cold  thought  of 
homicide  was  on  their  heads.  His 
throat  began  to  rattle.  And,  fearful 
lest  they  should  be  overheard,  she  gave 
him  one  last  push  with  all  her  strength. 

Therese  was  getting  her  breath.  She 
gathered  up  her  hair  before  the  mirror. 
She  pulled  a  strip  of  embroidery 
from  her  skirt,  which  had  been  torn, 
pretending  not  to  heed  the  vanquished. 


FOR  A  NIGHT  73 

He  could  manage  to  pick  himself  up. 
Then  she  prodded  him  with  her  toe. 
Finally,  since  he  did  not  move,  she  bent 
over  him,  with  a  little  shiver  in  the  back 
of  her  neck.  Colombel's  face  was  as 
pale  as  wax,  his  eyes  glassy,  his  mouth 
distorted.  There  was  a  hole  in  his  right 
temple;  his  head  had  struck  the  edge 
of  the  bureau.    Colombel  was  dead. 

She  arose,  cold  as  ice.  She  spoke 
aloud  to  herself  in  the  silence : 

'  *  Dead !    He 's  dead  now ! ' ' 

And  suddenly  the  reality  filled  her 
with  frightful  anguish.  True  enough, 
a  moment  before  she  had  wanted  to  kill 
him.  But  that  was  only  part  of  her  na- 
ture, a  cloud  of  passion.  One  always 
wants  to  kill  when  one  is  fighting.  But 
one  does  not  always  kill,  because  the 
dead  are  disquieting.  No!  No!  She 
was  not  guilty !  She  had  not  wished  to 
do  this.    In  her  own  room— the  idea! 


74  FOR  A  NIGHT 

She  continued  to  speak  aloud  in  little 
broken  sentences. 

**AVell,  it's  done!  He's  dead,  and  lie 
can't  get  out  of  here  by  himself." 

A  fever  follo^Yed  the  cold  stupor  of 
the  first  moment  and  welled  up  like  a 
wave  of  fire.  There  was  a  dead  man  in 
her  room.  She  could  never  explain  his 
presence  there,  barefoot  and  in  shirt- 
sleeves, with  a  gash  in  his  temple.  She 
was  lost. 

Therese  stooped  and  looked  at  the 
wound.  But  a  sudden  fear  seized  her, 
leaning  over  the  corpse.  She  heard 
Fran^oise,  Colombel's  mother,  passing 
along  the  corridor,  then  other  noises, 
footsteps,  voices— the  preparations  for 
a  dance  which  was  being  given  that  veiy 
evening.  They  might  call  her  or  come 
to  look  for  her  at  any  moment.  And 
this  dead  man  was  with  her— this  lover 


FOR  A  NIGHT  75 

whom  she  had  killed  and  whose  weight 
was  now  on  her  guilty  shoulders ! 

Deafened  by  the  noises  in  her  head, 
which  Avere  becoming  louder  and  louder, 
she  rose  and  began  to  turn  around  the 
room.  She  was  looking  for  a  hole  into 
which  to  thrust  this  dead  man,  who 
threatened  to  ruin  her  future.  She 
peered  under  the  fui-niture,  into  cor- 
ners, shaking  all  the  time  at  her  help- 
lessness. No.  There  was  not  a  spot ;  the 
alcove  was  not  deep  enough,  the  closets 
too  narrow,— the  room  utterly  refused 
to  help  her.  And  yet  it  was  here  they 
had  found  a  place  to  hide  their  em- 
braces! He  used  to  come  in  with  the 
soft  noise  of  a  malicious  cat,  and  he 
used  to  go  out  in  the  same  manner.  She 
never  thought  he  could  become  so  heavy. 

Therese  kept  fretting,  moving  about 
the  room  with  the  restless  fury  of  a 
beast  at  bay.    Then  she  thought  vshe  had 


76  FOR  A  NIGHT 

an  inspiration.  AVliat  if  she  were  just 
to  throw  Colombel  out  of  the  window? 
No.  "When  they  found  him  they  would 
easily  guess  where  he  had  fallen  from. 
But  meanwhile  she  had  lifted  the  cur- 
tain to  look  out  into  the  street,  and  of  a 
sudden  her  eyes  rested  upon  the  young 
man  across  the  way— the  imbecile  who 
played  a  flute  at  his  window,  as  subdued 
as  a  dog!  She  knew  his  sallow  face  so 
well,  always  turned  towards  her;  she 
had  become  so  tired  of  all  its  cowardly 
devotion.  At  the  sight  of  Julien,  so 
humble  and  so  faithful,  she  stopped 
abruptly.  A  smile  lit  up  her  colorless 
face.  Here  was  help— her  salvation! 
The  imbecile  loved  her  like  a  dog;  he 
would  obey  her,  even  to  the  commission 
of  a  crime.  And  besides,  she  would  re- 
pay him  with  all  her  soul— with  her 
body.  She  had  despised  him  because 
he  was  so  soft ;  but  she  would  love  him 


FOR  A  NIGHT  77 

now ;  she  would  buy  him  at  any  price,  if 
he  would  dabble  his  hands  in  this  blood 
for  her.  Her  red  lips  throbbed  at  the 
thought  of  a  new  love  which  the 
stranger  might  inspire. 

Then  deftly,  as  she  would  have  man- 
aged with  a  bundle  of  linen,  she  lifted 
ColombePs  body,  carried  it  to  her  bed. 
And,  opening  the  window,  threw  those 
three  kisses  to  Julien. 


FOR  A  NIGHT 


IV. 


Julien  was  in  a  trance.  Wlien  he 
recognized  Colombel  on  the  bed  he  was 
not  sur2:)rised :  he  found  it  all  quite  clear 
and  natural.  Yes.  Only  Colombel  could 
be  in  the  recess  of  that  alcove,  his 
temple  gashed,  his  limbs  stiffened  in  a 
horrible  posture. 

Therese  spoke  to  him  for  some  time ; 
he  did  not  liear,— her  words  blurred  into 
a  confused  stupor.  Tlien  he  realized 
that  she  was  giving  him  instructions, 
and  he  listened.  He  must  not  leave  the 
room  now;  he  must  wait  until  midnight, 
when  the  house  would  be  dark.  This 
dance  which  the  marquis  was  giving 
would  prevent  them  from  acting  before 
that  time;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  it 
would  be  of  some  advantage,  since 
everybody  would  be  too  busy  to  think 


FOR  A  NIGHT  79 

of  coming  up  to  her  room,  meanwhile. 
At  the  appointed  hour  Julien  would 
take  the  body  on  his  back,  carry  it  down 
and  drop  it  into  the  Chanteclair,  at  the 
foot  of  Beau-Soleil.  The  tranquillity 
with  which  Therese  unfolded  this  plan 
was  marvellous. 

She  stopped  and,  placing  her  hands  on 
the  young  man's  shoulders,  asked  him: 

*'You  imderstand  me  thoroughly? 
Are  we  agreed?" 

He  trembled.  *'0h,  yes,  yes!  Any- 
thing you  ask !    I  am  yours ! ' ' 

Then  she  leaned  towards  him.  He 
did  not  seem  to  understand.  So  she 
said: 

"Kiss  me." 

Quivering,  he  imprinted  a  long  kiss 
on  her  cold  forehead.  And  both  of  them 
kept  their  silence. 

Therese  had  drawn  the  curtains  of 
the  bed  again.     She  dropped  into  an 


80  FOR  A  NIGHT 

armchair  and  rested,  deep  in  the 
shadow.  After  a  moment  Julien  noticed 
that  he  was  still  standing  and  took  a 
chair.  Frangoise  had  left  the  next 
room,  and  only  confused,  distant  sounds 
came  up  at  intervals.  The  chamber 
seemed  to  fall  asleep,  filling  little  by- 
little  ^nth  shadows. 

For  nearly  an  hour  nothing  moved. 
Great  throbs  kept  beating  in  his  head 
and  jDrevented  him  from  thinking.  He 
was  in  Therese's  room,  and  that  filled 
him  with  satisfaction.  Then  suddenly, 
when  he  recollected  that  there  was  a 
corpse  at  the  back  of  that  alcove,  the 
curtains  brushing  against  his  hand 
made  him  shiver.  He  felt  weak.  She 
had  loved  that  abortion— merciful  hea- 
ven, was  it  possible!  He  forgave  her 
for  having  killed  it.  He  could  not  ac- 
cuse her  of  any  wrong.  But  what 
kindled  his  blood  was  the  thought  of 


FOR  A  NIGHT  81 

Colombel's  bare  feet  in  the  laces  of  her 
bed!  What  a  pleasure  it  would  be  to 
drop  him  into  the  Chanteclair,  from 
the  end  of  the  bridge,  in  a  deep,  dark 
spot  of  the  stream  he  knew  well !  Then 
they  would  both  be  free— for  each 
other!  And  at  this  thought  of  happi- 
ness, which  he  had  not  dared  to  dream 
that  morning,  he  seemed  to  see  himself 
on  the  bed,  in  the  very  spot  where  the 
corpse  now  lay;  but  the  spot  was  very 
cold,  and  he  was  overcome  with  a  fright- 
ful repugnance. 

Therese  sat  doubled  up  in  her  arm- 
chair. She  did  not  stir.  Outlined 
against  the  light  of  the  window  he  saw 
only  the  soft  knot  of  her  hair.  She  re- 
mained with  her  face  buried  in  her 
hands,  so  it  was  impossible  to  guess  the 
thoughts  which  absorbed  her.  Was  it 
only  the  reaction  after  the  frightful  or- 
deal she  had  been  through  ?    Or  was  it 


82  FOR  A  NIGHT 

crusliiug  remorsG— a  regret  for  that 
lover  wrapped  in  his  last  sleep?  Was 
she  quietly  perfecting  their  plans  of 
safety  or  was  she  hiding  the  signs  of  an 
awful  fear  on  her  face  plunged  in 
shadow?    He  could  not  imagine. 

The  clock  stnick  in  the  silence.  The- 
rese  rose  slowly  and  lighted  the  candles 
on  her  bureau,  and  she  was  once  more 
thoroughly  possessed  of  her  usual  calm 
—beautiful,  easy,  strong.  She  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  the  dead  man  behind 
the  pink  silk  curtains.  She  came  and 
went  with  the  even  step  of  one  busied 
in  the  privacy  of  her  room.  Then  while 
she  undid  her  hair  she  said  to  Julien 
without  even  turning: 

"I  must  dress  for  this  dance.  If  any- 
one comes  3^ou  will  hide  in  the  alcove." 

He  sat  there  watching  her.  She 
treated  him  like  a  lover  already,  as 
though  the  bloody  complicity  which  she 


FOR  A  NIGHT  8a 

had  raised  between  them  united  them  in 
a  tie  of  intimacy. 

Her  long  arms  raised  high,  she  was 
doing  her  hair.  He  could  not  take  his 
eyes  from  her.  He  quivered  at  the  sight 
of  her  bare  neck  and  the  languid  move- 
ments of  her  pointed  elbows  and  slender 
hands  as  they  rolled  up  her  tresses. 
Was  she  trying  to  bewitch  him  by  dang- 
ling before  his  eyes  the  prize  he  was 
about  to  earn,  so  as  to  make  him  strong  ? 

She  was  changing  her  shoes  when 
they  heard  a  noise. 

''Quick!  Hide  in  the  alcove!'*  she 
said  in  a  whisper. 

And  with  a  prompt  move  she  threw 
over  the  rigid  body  of  Colombel  the  lin- 
gerie she  had  just  taken  off— still  warm 
from  her  skin.  Frangoise  came  in  and 
announced : 

''They  are  waiting  for  you,  Mademoi- 
selle." 


84  FOR  A  NIGHT 

**I*m  coming/'  answered  Therese 
quietly.  **  Wait— you  can  help  me  with 
my  dress.'' 

Through  an  opening  in  the  curtains 
Julien  could  see  the  two  women.  He 
trembled  at  the  girl's  boldness  and  his 
teeth  chattered  so  lively  that  he  held 
his  hand  over  his  mouth  to  stifle  the 
sound.  Right  next  to  him,  under  a 
waist  of  Therese 's,  he  saw  Colombel's 
foot  hanging  over  the  edge  of  the  bed. 
i'\^^at  if  Francoise,  his  own  mother, 
should  happen  to  pull  aside  that  cur- 
tain and  stmnble  over  her  son's  foot- 
that  bare  foot  that  stuck  out! 

*' Carefully,"  Therese  was  saying, 
*'Go  gently— you'll  crush  the  flowers." 

There  wasn't  the  least  trace  of  emo- 
tion in  her  voice.  She  was  smiling  now, 
like  a  girl  preparing  for  the  ball.  The 
dress  was  white  silk  trimmed  with  eg- 
lantine—white flowers  with  a  spot  of 


FOR  A  NIGHT  85 

red  at  the  heart.  And  as  she  stood  in 
the  centre  of  the  room  she  was  like  a 
great  bouquet  of  virgin  whiteness.  Her 
bare  arms  and  neck  were  as  white  as 
the  silk  itself. 

"Oh,  how  pretty  you  look!  How 
pretty  you  look!"  repeated  the  satis- 
fied old  woman.  "But  your  wreath! 
Wait " 

She  seemed  to  be  searching  for  it,  and 
her  hand  came  near  the  curtain  as 
though  to  look  on  the  bed.  Julien  al- 
most allowed  a  cry  of  anguish  to  escape 
him.  But  Therese  said  leisurely,  smil- 
ing all  the  while  in  her  mirror: 

"There  it  is— on  that  press.  Give  it 
to  me.  Oh,  no.  Don't  touch  my  bed. 
I  Ve  arranged  some  things  there.  You'll 
disarrange  everything." 

Frangoise  helped  her  put  the  spray  of 
eglantine  in  her  hair,  with  just  an  end 
falling  over  the  neck.     Then  Therese 


86  FOR  A  NIGHT 

stood  before  the  mirror  a  moment 
longer— satisfied.  She  was  quite  ready ; 
she  was  drawing  on  her  gloves. 

**Ah,  my  dear,"  cried  Fran^oise, 
"there  are  no  girls  as  white  as  you,  even 
in  the  church!" 

This  compliment  made  her  smile 
again.  She  took  a  last  look  in  her  mir- 
ror and  turned  toward  the  door. 

"Come;  let  us  go  do^vn.  You  can 
snuif  the  candles,"  she  said. 

In  the  sudden  darkness  which  fol- 
lowed Julien  heard  the  door  shut  and 
Therese's  dress  sweep  along  the  cor- 
ridor. He  sat  on  the  floor,  next  the  bed, 
not  yet  daring  to  come  out  of  the  alcove. 
Dark  night  had  thrown  a  veil  before  his 
eyes,  but  he  could  feel  the  presence  of 
that  bare  foot.  It  seemed  to  chill  the 
whole  room.  He  had  been  there  for  a 
time,  which  he  had  failed  to  note,  vrhen 
the  door  opened  again.     By  the  little 


FOR  A  NIGHT  87 

swish  of  silk  he  knew  it  was  Therese. 
She  did  not  come  in ;  she  only  stooped  to 
set  something  down  and  murmured : 

''Listen.  You  can't  have  dined.  You 
must  eat  something.    Do  you  hear?" 

The  little  swish  was  repeated  as  her 
dress  trailed  along  the  corridor  again. 
Julien  started  and  stood  up.  He  was 
becoming  stiff  in  the  alcove;  he  could 
not  remain  crouched  against  that  bed 
any  longer  beside  Colombel.  The  clock 
struck  eight.  Four  hours  more.  He  be- 
gan to  walk  softly. 

A  faint  light,  the  glow  of  a  starlit 
night,  enabled  him  to  make  out  the  dark 
shapes  of  the  furniture.  Some  of  the 
corners  were  pitch  black.  But  the  mir- 
ror retained  a  reflection  as  of  old  silver. 
He  was  not  naturally  timorous;  but  in 
that  room  at  times  the  sweat  stood  out 
on  his  forehead.  All  around  him  the 
black  masses  of  the  furniture  seemed 


88  FOR  A  NIGHT 

to  move,  to  take  on  menacing  shapes. 
Three  times  he  thought  he  heard  dis- 
tinctly sighs  from  the  alcove.  He 
stopped,  rooted.  A^^ien  he  listened  in- 
tently he  knew  it  was  the  sound  of 
revelry  below— dance-music  and  the 
ripple  of  laughter  of  the  crowd.  He 
closed  his  eyes;  and,  instead  of  the  dark 
chamber,  he  saw  a  burst  of  light,  a  bril- 
liant hall  and  Therese  in  her  white 
dress  swept  by  to  a  waltz-strain  on  the 
arm  of  a  dancer.  The  hotel  was  re- 
sounding with  gay  music.  He  was  alone 
in  this  abominable  corner,  left  to  quake 
with  terror.  For  a  moment  he  stag- 
gered; his  hair  stood  on  end.  He 
thought  he  saw  a  white  light  in  one  of 
the  chairs.  A^Hiien  he  got  courage  to  go 
near  and  touch  it  he  found  a  white  satin 
waist.  He  picked  it  up  and  buried  his 
face  in  it. 

Oh,  what  rapture !   He  wanted  to  for- 


FOE  A  NIGHT  89 

get  ever5i;hing.  No.  It  was  no  longer 
a  death  watch;  it  was  a  vigil  of  love! 
He  pressed  his  forehead  against  the 
window-pane,  still  holding  the  satin  to 
his  lips.  And  he  told  over  the  story  of 
his  heart.  Across  the  way  he  saw  his 
room ;  the  mndows  were  still  open  as  he 
had  left  them.  There  it  was  that  he 
had  won  Therese  by  his  long  evenings 
of  music.  The  old  flute  sang  his  love, 
made  his  vows  and  its  trembling  voice 
was  so  sweet  and  timid  that  the  girl 
was  conquered,  and  had  at  last  smiled 
upon  him.  This  satin  he  was  kissing 
was  hers,  a  bit  of  remembrance  she  had 
left  him  to  keep  him  from  losing  in- 
terest. His  dream  became  so  vi\dd 
that  he  left  the  window  and  ran  to  the 
door,  thinking  he  heard  her  coming. 

The  chill  of  the  room  fell  about  his 
shoulders,  and  he  was  disillusioned.  He 
remembered.      Then    a    mad    decision 


90  FOR  A  NIGHT 

seized  him.  He  would  not  wait;  he 
would  come  hack  this  very  night.  She 
was  too  beautiful.  He  loved  her  too 
much.  When  a  man  loves  guiltily  he 
loves  madly.  Of  course  he  would  come 
back,  and  running  so  as  not  to  lose  a  mo- 
ment, when  once  he  had  dropped  his 
load  into  the  river.  ,  And  like  a  mad- 
man, shaken  by  a  spasm,  he  pressed  the 
satin  against  his  face  to  choke  his  pas- 
sionate sobs. 

Ten  o'clock  struck.  He  listened.  It 
seemed  to  him  years  had  passed.  He 
waited  stupidly.  Finding  bread  and 
fruit  under  his  hand,  he  ate  ravenously, 
standing;  he  had  a  pain  in  his  stomach 
which  he  could  not  appease.  This  would 
make  him  stronger  doubtless.  But 
when  he  had  eaten  he  was  overcome 
vAWv  a  great  weariness.  It  seemed  the 
night  would  never  be  over.  DoAvnstairs 
the  music  sounded  louder.     Now  and 


FOR  A  NIGHT  91 

then  lie  felt  the  throb  of  the  dancing  in 
the  floor.  Carriages  began  to  roll  up 
the  drive.  He  was  watching  the  door 
closely  when  he  saw  the  keyhole  light 
up  like  a  little  star.  He  did  not  even 
conceal  himself.  If  anyone  came,  so 
much  the  worse ! 

"No,  thank  you,  FrauQoise,"  Thercse 
was  saying  as  she  appeared  with  a 
candle  in  her  hand.  *'I  can  get  along 
very  well  alone.  Go  to  bed.  You  must 
be  tired." 

She  closed  the  door  and  locked  it. 
Then  she  stood  still  for  a  moment,  her 
finger  on  her  lips,  and  holding  the 
candlestick.  Even  the  dance  had  not 
brought  the  least  streak  of  color  to  her 
cheeks.  She  did  not  speak,  but  set  down 
the  candlestick  and  sat  opposite  Julien. 
For  almost  half-an-hour  they  waited, 
looking  at  each  other. 

The  doors  had  been  closed.    The  hotel 


92  FOR  A  NIGHT 

was  falling  asleep.  But  what  troubled 
Therese  was  the  proximity  of  Fran- 
^oise,  who  slept  in  the  next  room.  They 
could  hear  her  moving  about  for  a  while. 
Then  her  bed  creaked;  she  had  retired. 
For  a  long  time  she  kept  shifting  about, 
as  though  imable  to  sleep,  but  at  last 
the  sound  of  strong  and  regular  breath- 
ing came  through  the  wall. 

Therese  was  watching  Julien  gravely 
all  the  while.  Now  she  said  only  one 
word : 

'Tome." 

They  drew  aside  the  curtains.  They 
decided  to  clothe  little  Colombel  fully. 
He  was  already  as  stiff  as  a  puppet. 
When  they  had  finished  this  loathsom.e 
task  both  their  foreheads  were  wet  with 
perspiration. 

**Come,"  she  said  a  second  time. 

With  one  swing  Julien  lifted  little 
Colombel.    He  carried  him  on  his  shoul- 


FOR  A  NIGHT  93 

ders  as  a  butcher  carries  a  carcass.  He 
stooped  his  great  height  and  the  feet  of 
the  corpse  were  a  yard  from  the  floor. 

"I'll  walk  in  front  of  you,"  mur- 
mured Therese  hastily.  '*I'll  lead  you 
by  your  coat;  you  need  only  follow. 
And  go  gently.'' 

They  had  to  pass  through  FranQoise's 
room  first  of  all.  It  was  a  dreadful  or- 
deal. They  had  almost  got  through 
when  one  leg  of  the  corpse  struck 
against  a  chair.  Frangoise  awoke  at  the 
noise.  They  heard  her  raise  her  head, 
mumbling.  And  they  stood  still.  The- 
rese leaned  against  the  door;  he  bent 
under  the  weight  of  the  body,  both  fear- 
ful lest  the  mother  might  catch  them 
carrying  her  son  to  the  river.  It  was  a 
moment  of  awful  suspense.  At  last 
Fran^oise  appeared  to  go  to  sleep  again, 
and  they  moved  on  to  the  corridor 
cautiously. 


94  FOR  A  NIGHT 

But  here  another  shock  awaited  them. 
The  marquise  had  not  vet  retired,  and 
a  soft  light  filtered  out  at  her  door, 
which  was  partly  open.  They  dared 
neither  advance  nor  retreat.  Julien 
felt  that  little  Colombel  was  slipping 
from  his  shoulders,  and  would  fall  if 
they  had  to  pass  through  Francoise's 
room  again.  For  nearly  a  quarter-of- 
an-hour  they  did  not  move.  And  The- 
rese  had  the  awful  courage  to  help  hold 
up  the  body,  so  that  Julien  should  not 
be  worn  out.  Finally  the  thread  of  light 
disappeared;  they  could  make  the 
street.    They  were  safe. 

Therese  opened  the  old  deserted  hall- 
door  again,  softly.  And  when  Julien 
reached  the  middle  of  the  square 
Quatre-Femmes  with  his  burden  and 
looked  back,  he  saw  her  standing  at  the 
top  of  the  stoop,  bare  armed  and  all 
white  in  her  ball-dress.  She  was  wait- 
ing for  him. 


FOE  A  NIGHT  95 


V. 


Julien  was  as  strong  as  an  ox.  When 
he  was  very  young  he  had  amused  him- 
self in  a  neighboring  forest  helping  the 
lumbermen,  and  he  used  to  lift  tree- 
trunks  on  his  shoulders.  So  he  carried 
Colombel  like  a  feather ;  the  little  abor- 
tion was  no  heavier  on  his  back  than 
a  bird  now.  He  scarcely  felt  the 
weight,  and  he  was  seized  with  a  wicked 
joy  to  find  him  so  light,  so  delicate, 
so  like  nothing  at  all.  Little  Colom- 
bel would  never  grin  again,  passing 
under  his  window  when  he  was  playing 
his  flute ;  would  never  tantalize  him  any 
more  with  his  airs.  And  at  the  thought 
that  he  was  carrying  a  successful  rival 
thus,  stiff  and  cold,  Julien  felt  a  shud- 
der of  satisfaction  run  down  his  back. 
He  shifted  the  load  higher  on  his  neck 


96  FOR  A  NIGHT 

and  gritted  his  teeth  and  hastened  his 
pace. 

The  town  was  dark.  But  there  was 
a  light  in  one  window  on  the  square 
Quatre-Femmes,  in  Captain  Pidoux's 
window.  Doubtless  the  captain  was  in- 
disposed. You  could  see  the  silhouette 
of  his  corpulence  moving  to  and  fro  be- 
hind the  curtains.  Julien  was  uneasy 
and  crept  along  close  to  the  houses  on 
the  other  side  of  the  way.  A  sudden 
noise  froze  him.  He  stopped  in  a  door- 
way. It  was  the  notary  Savoumin's 
wife ;  she  was  getting  a  breath  of  air  at 
her  window,  and  looking  up  at  the  stars 
with  long  sighs.  Ordinarily  at  this  hour 
the  square  Quatre-Femmes  was  wrap- 
ped in  deep  slumber.  Happily,  Ma- 
dame Savournin  soon  mthdrew  to  the 
pillow  of  Maitre  Savournin,  whose  snor- 
ing reached  the  street  through  the  open 
window.    And  as  soon  as  it  was  closed 


FOR  A  NIGHT  97 

Julien  crossed  the  square  rapidly,  with 
the  rotund  profile  of  Captain  Pidoux 
always  before  his  eyes. 

In  the  narrow  street  Beau-Soleil  he 
felt  easier.  Here  the  houses  were  so 
close  together  and  the  pavement  so 
winding  that  the  starlight  could  not 
penetrate  to  the  bottom  of  this  cavern 
—simply  a  thread  of  shadow.  As  soon 
as  he  found  himself  thus  sheltered  he 
was  carried  away  with  an  irresistible 
desire  to  run.  It  was  dangerous  and 
very  stupid  and  he  was  keenly  aware 
of  the  fact,  but  he  could  not  stop  gallop- 
ing. He  felt  behind  him  the  empty 
square  Quatre-Femmes,  with  the 
windows  of  the  notary's  wife  and  the 
captain  lighted  up,  like  two  large  eyes 
watching  him.  His  shoes  clattered  on 
the  pavement  so  loud  that  he  was  sure  he 
was  being  pursued.  Then  suddenly  he 
halted.    A  few  yards  off  he  heard  the 


98  FOR  A  NIGHT 

voices  of  the  officers  who  boarded  at  the 
inn  on  Beau-Soleil,  kept  by  an  old 
woman  with  blonde  hair.  They  must  be 
celebrating  the  promotion  of  some  com- 
rade. Julien  knew  that  if  they  came  up 
the  street  he  was  lost.  There  was  no 
side  alley  into  which  he  might  slip,  and 
it  was  too  late  to  escape  by  turning 
back.  He  heard  the  stamp  of  boots  and 
the  clatter  of  sabres.  For  a  full  mo- 
ment he  could  not  tell  whether  they  were 
drawing  nearer  or  going  the  other  way. 
But  by  degrees  the  sound  died  out.  He 
waited  a  little  longer  and  then  decided 
to  push  on.  But  this  time  he  walked 
softly;  he  would  have  liked  to  be  bare- 
foot if  he  had  dared  take  the  time  to 
pull  off  his  shoes. 

At  last,  Julien  stole  out  through  the 
city  gate.  There  was  neither  watch- 
tower  nor  any  kind  of  sentinel.  So  he 
could  pass  freely.    But  the  sudden  con- 


FOR  A  NIGHT  99 

trast  of  the  open  country  terrified  him, 
upon  coming  out  of  the  narrow  street  of 
Beau-Soleil.  The  landscape  was  all 
blue,  a  very  faint  blue.  A  soft  wind 
was  stirring,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that 
an  immense  crowd  was  waiting,  and  he 
felt  their  breath  in  his  face.  He 
imagined  he  was  seen.  A  dreadful  hue 
and  cry  went  up  and  nailed  him  to  the 
spot. 

However,  there  was  the  bridge.  He 
could  make  out  the  white  road  and  the 
two  parapets,  low  and  grey,  like  stone 
benches.  He  heard  the  musical  swish 
of  the  Chanteclair  among  the  rushes. 
And  then  he  risked  it;  he  walked 
crouching  and  avoided  the  open,  to 
elude  the  thousands  of  mute  witnesses 
w^hich  he  felt  all  around  him.  The  spot 
he  dreaded  most  of  all  was  the  bridge 
itself,  on  which  he  must  be  quite  un- 
sheltered, in  view  of  the  whole  to\vn. 


100  FOR  A  KIGHT 

built  up  like  an  amphitheatre.  And  he 
wanted  to  go  to  the  other  end  of  the 
bridge,  to  the  very  place  where  he 
always  used  to  sit  with  his  legs  hanging 
over,  to  get  the  air  on  fine  evenings. 
There  was  a  spot  in  the  Chanteclair,  a 
great  hole,  placid  and  dark,  hollowed 
out  by  little  rapids  and  the  deep  action 
of  a  whirlpool.  How  often  he  had 
amused  himself  by  dropping  stones  into 
this  sheet  of  water  to  fathom  its  depth 
by  the  ripples!  With  a  last  effort  of 
his  will  he  crossed  the  bridge. 

Yes,  this  was  the  spot.  Julien  recog- 
nized the  slab  of  the  railing,  smoothed 
by  long  use.  He  leaned  over  and  saw 
the  eddy  with  its  little  smiling  currents. 
He  set  his  burden  down  on  the  parapet. 
Before  throwing  him  over  he  had  an  ir- 
resistible longing  to  look  at  little  Co- 
lombel  once  more.  Every  eye  in  the 
town  upon  him  could  not  have  deterred 


FOR  A  NIGHT  101 

him  from  this  satisfaction.  He  looked 
the  corpse  in  the  face  for  several  sec- 
onds. The  hole  in  the  tem])le  had 
turned  black.  A  wagon  far  off  in  the 
sleeping  country  sounded  like  long 
broken  sobs.  Then  Julien  hurried.  To 
avoid  a  loud  splash  he  would  break  the 
fall  and  let  it  down  gently,  so  he  took 
hold  of  the  body  and  leaned  over  with 
it.  But  he  did  not  know  how  the  arms 
of  the  dead  man  would  cling  to  his  neck 
and  pull  him  along.  He  saved  himself 
miraculously  by  gripping  a  projection 
of  the  ledge.  And  so  little  Colombel 
wanted  to  take  him  along! 

When  he  was  once  more  sitting  on  the 
parapet  he  was  overcome  with  weak- 
ness. He  remained  there,  worn  out,  his 
back  doubled  up  and  his  legs  swinging, 
relaxed,  like  a  man  who  had  walked 
very  far,  just  as  he  had  sat  there  so 
often  before.    And  he  looked  down  into 


102  FOR  A  NIGHT 

the  sleeping  water,  where  the  smiling 
dimples  were  beginning  to  reappear. 
One  thing  certain,  little  Colombel  had 
wanted  to  take  him  along;  he  had 
caught  him  about  the  neck  with  his  dead 
hands.  But  that  was  all  over  now.  He 
took  deep  breaths  of  the  fresh  coimtry 
air.  He  followed  the  silver  course  of 
the  river  between  the  velvet  shadows 
of  the  trees.  And  this  spot  in  nature 
seemed  to  him  like  a  promise  of  peace,  a 
ceaseless  lullaby. 

Then  he  recalled  Therese.  She  was 
waiting  for  him.  He  could  see  her  at 
this  very  moment,  at  the  top  of  that 
ruined  stoop,  on  the  moss-grown  door- 
step. How  straight  she  stood  in  her 
white  silk  dress  trimmed  with  eglantine 
—each  with  its  little  red  heart!  Per- 
haps she  was  getting  chilled.  Then  she 
must  have  gone  up  to  wait  in  her  room, 


FOR  A  NIGHT  103 

and  had  left  the  door  open  and  gone  to 
bed. 

Ah,  what  sweet  thoughts !  Never  be- 
fore had  a  woman  waited  for  him. 
Another  moment  and  he  would  be  at  the 
promised  rendezvous.  But  his  limbs 
were  getting  so  heavy,  he  was  afraid  he 
was  falling  asleep.  Was  he  a  coward 
after  all?  And  to  arouse  himself  he 
pictured  Therese  in  her  room.  As  he 
had  seen  her,  he  saw  her  again— her 
arms  raised  and  her  neck  bent,  shaking 
out  her  soft  tresses  with  those  white 
hands.  He  urged  himself  with  such 
recollections— the  fragrance  and  soft- 
ness of  that  dream-paradise,  where  he 
had  drunk  of  madness.  Was  he  going  to 
let  all  this  love,  held  out  to  him,  with 
which  his  lips  were  already  afire,  slip 
by  ?  He  would  crawl  if  his  legs  refused 
to  carry  him! 

But  the  battle  was  already  lost.    His 


104  FOR  A  NIGHT 

love,  overpowered,  was  in  its  death 
throes.  There  was  only  one  thing  he 
must  have— sleep— sleep.  The  picture 
of  Therese  was  fading;  a  black  wall 
was  shutting  it  out.  To  save  his  life 
he  could  not  have  lifted  his  finger  as 
high  as  his  shoulder.  His  d}dng  pas- 
sion savored  somehow  of  a  corpse.  Oh, 
it  was  impossible;  the  ceiling  would 
have  fallen  on  their  heads  if  he  had 
gone  back  to  that  room  and  taken  the 
girl  to  his  bosom! 

To  sleep— just  to  sleep  on  forever! 
How  good  it  would  be  when  there  wasn*t 
anything  to  make  waking  worth  while! 
He  wouldn  't  go  to  the  office  to-morrow ; 
what  was  the  use?  He  wouldn't  play 
his  flute  any  more.  He  wouldn't  sit  at 
his  window.  "V^^iy  not  sleep  forever? 
His  life  was  full:  he  might  as  well  lie 
down.  And  he  looked  into  the  river 
again  to  see  if  little  Colombel  was  still 


FOR  A  NIGHT  105 

there.  Colombel  had  been  a  clever  boy ; 
he  knew  what  he  was  doing  when  he  had 
tried  to  drag  him  along. 

There  was  the  water,  rippled  with  the 
dancing  laughter  of  its  eddies.  The 
Chanteclair  was  singing  softly,  while 
one  large  shadow  spread  over  the  land- 
scape—sovereign peace.  Julien  mur- 
mured the  name  of  Therese  three  times. 
Then  he  let  himself  fall,  and  turned 
like  a  bundle.  There  was  a  great  splash 
and  some  spray.  And  the  Chanteclair 
took  up  its  song  in  the  sedge. 

When  they  found  the  two  bodies 
everyone  immediately  thought  of  a 
struggle.  They  made  up  the  whole 
story :  Julien  must  have  lain  in  wait  for 
little  Colombel  to  avenge  himself  for  all 
the  mocking;  he  must  have  struck  him 
in  the  temple  with  a  stone,  and  then 
thrown  himself  into  the  river. 

Three    months    later    Mademoiselle 


106  FOR  A  NIGHT 

Tlierese  de  Marsanne  ^Yedded  the  young 
Oomte  de  Veteuil.  She  wore  white,  and 
her  face  was  calm  and  full  of  lofty 
purity. 


THE  MAID  OF  THE  DAWBER 


The    Maid  of  the    Dawber 


She  is  still  in  bed,  half  bare,  smiling, 
her  head  turned  away  and  her  eyes  full 
of  sleep.  One  of  her  arms  is  lost  in  her 
hair,  and  the  other  hangs  over  the  edge 
of  the  bed,  the  hand  open.  The  count  in 
slippers  stands  before  one  of  the 
windows  and  runs  up  the  shade.  He  is 
smoking  a  cigar  with  an  air  of  absorp- 
tion. 

You  all  know  her.  She  was  twenty 
yesterday,  and  looks  sixteen.  She  wears 
the  most  magnificent  crown  that  heaven 
has  ever  bestowed  upon  one  of  its 
angels,  a  crown  of  brown  gold,  the  royal 
crown  of  a  deep  blonde,  soft  and  strong 
as  a  lion's  mane,  glossy  as  a  skein  of 
109 


110  THE  MAID   OF 

silk.  The  wave  of  flame  rolls  about  her 
neck.  Each  mesh  has  its  little  revolts, 
straightens  itself  and  then  runs  out  very- 
long.  The  curls  fall,  the  tresses  glide 
and  roll;  the  entire  mass  glows  like  a 
sunburst.  And  under  the  fire,  in  the 
midst  of  its  splendor,  appears  the  nape 
of  a  neck  white  and  delicate,  pale  shoul- 
ders and  full  breasts.  Irresistible  se- 
duction dwells  on  that  fair  throat,  peep- 
ing out  discreetly  from  the  hair  of  in- 
solent redness.  Passion  kindles  and 
burns  when  your  eyes  lose  themselves 
upon  the  neck  of  tender  lights  and 
golden  shadows.  Here  are  the  tawny 
beast  and  the  child,  boldness  and  inno- 
cence, intoxication  which  draws  terrible 
kisses. 

Is  she  pretty*?  It  is  hard  to  say:  her 
face  is  hidden  by  her  hair.  She  must 
have  a  low  forehead;  eyes  narrow  and 
long,  greyish.    Her  nose  is  doubtless  ir- 


THE   DAWBER  111 

regular,  capricious;  her  mouth  a  little 
large,  pale  rose.  A^Hiat  matter  for  the 
rest?  You  could  not  analyse  her  fea- 
tures or  stop  over  the  contour  of  her 
face.  She  confuses  at  first  sight,  as  a 
strong  wine  does  at  the  first  glass.  You 
see  nothing  but  a  whiteness  in  a  red 
flame,  a  rosy  smile;  and  her  glance  is 
like  the  flash  of  silver  in  the  sunlight. 
She  turns  her  head  and  you  are  too  far 
gone  already  to  study  her  perfections 
one  by  one.  She  is  of  medium  stature^ 
just  a  little  slow  and  heavy  in  her  move- 
ments. Her  hands  and  feet  are  like  a 
little  girl's.  Her  whole  body  expresses 
indolent  pleasure.  One  of  her  bare 
anus,  full  and  dazzling,  provokes  a  ver- 
tigo of  desire.  She  is  queen  of  May 
evenings,  queen  of  loves  that  last  for  a 
night. 

She  leans  on  her  left  arm,  slightly 
bent.     She  will  soon  rise.     Meanwhile 


112  THE  MAID   OF 

she  half  opens  her  eyelids  to  get  them 
accustomed  to  the  daylight  and  the  pale 
blue  bed-curtains.  She  lies  lost  in  the 
lace  of  her  pillows.  She  seems  ingulfed 
in  the  delicious  moisture  and  fatigue  of 
awakening.  Her  body  is  stretched  out, 
white  and  motionless,  gently  stirring 
with  a  soft  sigh.  Rosy  palenesses  ap- 
pear here  and  there,  where  the  batiste 
stretches.  Nothing  could  be  richer  than 
this  bed  and  the  woman  lying  upon  it. 
The  di\dne  swan  has  a  nest  worthy  of 
her. 

The  chamber  is  a  marvel,  a  delicate 
blue,  sw^eet  and  reserved.  The  colors 
and  the  perfume  are  refreshing.  The 
air  is  languishing,  thrilling  and  cool. 
The  curtains  hang  in  large,  lazy  folds. 
The  carpet  lies  deaf  and  mute.  The 
silence  of  this  temple,  the  softness  of 
the  lights,  the  prudence  of  the  shadows, 
the  purity  of  the  furnishings  remind 


THE  DAWBER  113 

one  of  a  goddess,  who  unites  all  the 
graces  with  all  the  elegancies.  Surely 
she  was  reared  in  milk  baths.  Her  del- 
icate limbs  bespeak  the  noble  indolence 
of  her  life.  It  is  amusing  to  fancy  that 
her  soul  is  just  as  white  as  her  body. 

The  count  is  finishing  his  cigar,  keenly 
interested  in  a  horse  which  has  just 
fallen  in  the  Champs,  and  which  they 
are  trying  to  get  upon  his  feet.  The 
poor  beast  has  fallen  on  his  left  flank, 
and  the  shaft  must  be  breaking  his  ribs. 


114  THE  MAID  OF 


II. 


At  the  back  of  the  chamber,  on  her 
perfumed  bed,  the  wonderful  creature 
is  awakening,  little  by  little.  Now  she 
has  opened  her  eyes  wide,  but  remains 
motionless.  The  mind  is  awake,  the 
flesh  asleep.  She  is  dreaming.  To  what 
luminous  sphere  has  she  been  soaring? 
What  legions  of  angels  are  passing  be- 
fore her  and  bring  a  smile  to  her  lips? 
Wliat  project,  what  pretty  task  is  she 
meditating  ?  What  first  thought,  dawn 
of  her  awakening,  has  just  surprised 
her?  Her  wide-open  eyes  are  fixed  on 
the  curtain.  She  has  not  yet  stirred. 
She  is  lost  in  her  dreams,  and  only  her 
eyelids  blink  at  intervals.  She  is  long 
caressing  her  thoughts. 

Then  briskly,  as  though  obe}dng  a 
sharp    caU,    she    stretches    forth    her 


THE   DAWBER  115 

feet  and  springs  lightly  to  the  carpet. 
The  statue  has  come  to  life.  She  tosses 
back  from  her  forehead  the  hair,  which 
winds  flaming  about  her  shoulders  of 
snow.  She  gathers  up  her  laces,  slips 
into  her  blue  velvet  mules,  crosses  her 
arms  in  a  charming  pose;  and  then, 
half-stooping,  her  shoulders  arched, 
pouting  like  a  mischievous  child,  she 
trots  ofl  rapidly,  noiselessly,  and  lifting 
a  portiere,  disappears. 

The  count  throws  away  his  cigar  with 
a  sigh  of  satisfaction.  The  horse  in 
the  street  is  up.  A  lash  of  a  whip 
brought  the  poor  animal  to  its  feet. 
The  count  turns  and  sees  the  empty  bed. 
He  looks  at  it  a  mom.ent;  then  advances 
leisurely,  and  sitting  on  the  edge,  begins 
in  his  turn  to  study  the  pale  blue  cur- 
tain. 

A  woman's  face  is  brazen:  a  man's  is 
like  a  clear  spring  which  reveals  all  the 


116  THE  MAID  OF 

secrets  of  its  limpidity.  The  count  is 
studying  the  curtain,  and  figures  me- 
chanically how  much  it  should  have  cost 
a  yard.  He  adds  and  multiplies,  for 
mere  distraction,  and  concludes  with  a 
large  figure.  Then  involuntarily,  car- 
ried away  by  the  relation  of  ideas,  he 
sets  a  valuation  on  the  whole  bedcham- 
ber, and  arrives  at  an  enormous  total. 
His  hand  rests  on  the  bed,  below  the 
pillow.  The  spot  is  warm.  The  count 
forgets  the  temple  to  think  of  the  idol. 
He  studies  the  bed,  that  voluptuous  dis- 
order which  every  fair  sleeper  leaves 
behind  her ;  and  at  the  sight  of  a  golden 
hair,  glistening  on  the  whiteness  of  the 
pillow,  he  loses  himself  in  thought  of 
this  woman.  Then  two  ideas  unite:  he 
thinks  of  the  woman  and  of  the  chamber 
at  the  same  time.  He  amuses  himself 
with  a  long  comparison  of  the  woman 
and  the  furniture,  the  draperies  and  the 


THE   DAWBER  117 

carpet.  Everything  is  harmonious. 
Here  the  count's  revery  strays,  and 
by  one  of  those  inexplicable  mysteries 
of  human  thought  his  boots  claim  his 
attention.  Suggested  by  nothing,  they 
suddenly  take  possession  of  his  whole 
mind.  He  recalls  that  for  about  three 
months  every  morning  when  he  has  left 
this  room  he  has  found  his  boots  blacked 
and  polished.  He  wonders  in  this  recol- 
lection. 

The  chamber  is  splendid.  The  woman 
simply  divine.  The  count  is  staring 
again  at  the  sky-blue  curtains  and  the 
single  golden  hair  on  the  linen.  He  com- 
pliments himself,  declaring  that  he 
righted  an  error  of  Providence  when  he 
installed  in  satin  this  queen  of  grace, 
whom  chance  bore  to  a  sewer-cleaner 
and  a  porteress  at  the  foot  of  a  dark 
alley,  near  Fontainebleau.  He  praises 
himself  for  having  given  a  soft  nest 


118  THE  MAID  OF 

to  this  marvel  for  the  mere  sum  of  five 
or  six  thousand  francs.  He  rises  and 
walks  a  few  paces.  He  is  lonesome. 
He  recalls  that  for  three  months  he  has 
been  left  alone  thus  every  morning  for 
a  full  quarter  of  an  hour.  And  then, 
without  curiosity,  just  for  the  sake  of 
doing  something,  he  lifts  the  portieres 
and  disappears  in  his  turn. 


THE   DAWBER  119 


III. 

The  count  passes  through  a  long  suite 
of  rooms,  where  he  finds  nobody.  But 
returning,  he  hears  in  a  closet  a  violent 
and  continued  sound  of  brushing. 
Thinking  that  it  is  a  servant,  and  wish- 
ing to  question  her  as  to  her  mistress' 
absence,  he  opens  the  door  and  looks  in. 
And  he  stops  on  the  threshold,  gaping, 
stupefied. 

The  closet  is  small,  painted  yellow, 
with  a  brow^n  base  the  height  of  a  man. 
In  one  corner  there  is  a  pail  and  a  large 
sponge,  in  another  a  broom  and  a 
feather-duster.  A  bay-window  throws  a 
stiff  light  on  the  bareness  of  this  store- 
room, very  high  and  verj^  narrow.  The 
air  is  damp  and  fresh. 

In  the  centre,  on  a  straw  mat,  sits  the 
beauty  with  golden  hair,  her  feet  gath- 


120  THE  MAID  OF 

ered  up  under  her.  On  her  right  is  a 
pot  of  boot-blacking,  with  a  brush  and 
a  dawber  caked  from  use,  still  thick  and 
damp.  On  her  left  is  a  boot,  shining 
like  a  mirror,  masterpiece  of  the  boot- 
black's art.  About  her  are  spattered 
spots  of  dirt  and  a  fine  gray  dust.  A 
little  further  off  lies  the  knife  to  scrape 
the  soles.  She  is  holding  on  her  hand 
the  other  boot.  One  of  her  arms  is  quite 
lost  in  the  leather  upper.  Her  little 
fingers  clutch  an  enormous  brush  with 
long,  stiff  bristles,  and  she  is  scrubbing 
furiously  at  the  heel,  which  seems  to 
refuse  to  take  a  shine. 

She  has  swathed  her  laces  about  her 
bare  knees,  which  she  holds  apart. 
Drops  of  sweat  roll  down  her  cheeks  and 
her  shoulders;  and  now  and  then  she 
must  stop  to  toss  back  impatiently  her 
tresses,  which  fall  over  her  eyes.  Her 
bosoms  and  her  arms  of  alabaster  are 


THE   DAWBER  121 

covered  witli  spots,  some  tiny  as  pin- 
heads,  some  as  large  as  beans :  the  black- 
ing, as  it  flies  from  the  bristles,  has 
flecked  that  dazzling  whiteness  with 
black  stars.  She  compresses  her  lips 
and  eyes,  wet  and  smiling.  She  bends 
lovingly  over  the  boot,  appearing  rather 
to  caress  than  to  rub  it.  She  is  devoted 
to  her  task  and  forgets  herself  in  her  in- 
finite pleasure,  shaken  by  her  rapid 
movements.  The  bay-window  pours  on 
her  its  cold  light.  A  wide  ray  falls 
across  her,  kindling  her  tresses,  enhanc- 
ing the  rosy  tint  of  her  skin  and  turn- 
ing her  laces  blue ;  it  displays  this  mar- 
vel of  grace  and  delicacy  in  the  dirt. 

Here  she  is,  greedy  and  happy.  She 
is  the  daughter  of  her  father,  the  daugh- 
ter of  her  mother.  Every  morning, 
upon  awakening,  she  thinks  of  her 
childhood  passed  on  the  filthy  staircase, 
in  the  midst  of  the  old  shoes  of  all  the 


12-2  THE  IMAID   OF 

lodgers.  She  thinks;  and  a  wild  de- 
sire possesses  her  to  scrape  something, 
even  if  it  is  only  a  pair  of  boots.  She 
has  a  passion  for  the  dawber,  as  other 
people  have  a  passion  for  flowers.  This 
is  her  secret,  the  thing  of  which  she  is 
ashamed,  but  in  which  she  finds  strange 
delights.  And  so,  she  rises  and  goes 
every  morning  in  her  luxury,  in  her  im- 
maculate beauty,  to  scrape  the  soles  with 
the  tips  of  her  white  fingers,  and  to  wal- 
low her  delicacy  of  a  great  lady  in  the 
unsavory  task  of  a  bootblack. 

The  count  touches  her  lightly  on  the 
shoulder ;  and  when  she  raises  her  head 
in  surprise  he  takes  his  boots  from  her, 
puts  them  on,  tosses  her  twenty-five 
sous,  and  quietly  withdraws. 


THE   DAWBER  123 


IV. 

Later  in  the  day  the  maid  of  the  daw- 
ber  is  vexed  and  harrowed  and  out- 
raged. She  writes  to  the  count.  She 
claims  damages  of  a  hundred  thousand 
francs.  The  count  replies  that  he  does 
recall  owing  her  something.  Polishing 
his  boots  at  twenty-five  sous  a  day  makes 
twenty-three  francs  at  the  end  of  three 
months.  He  is  sending  her  twenty- 
three  francs  by  his  man. 


COMPLEMENTS 


COMPLEMENTS 


In  Paris  they  have  everything  for 
sale— silly  girls  and  wise,  lies  and  truth, 
tears  and  smiles.  You  surely  know  that 
in  this  land  of  business  beauty  is  a  com- 
modity in  which  they  deal  on  a  tre- 
mendous scale.  They  buy  and  sell  large 
eyes  and  small  mouths ;  noses  and  chins 
are  valued  down  to  a  fine  point.  This 
dimple  or  that  mole  represents  a  certain 
price.  And  since  imitation  is  always 
going  on,  they  often  counterfeit  God's 
merchandise;  artificial  eyebrows  traced 
with  burnt  matches  or  false  switches 
stuck  on  with  long  hairpins  are  more 
highly  prized  than  the  genuine  article. 

All  of  which  is  perfectly  reasonable. 
127 


128  COMPLEMENTS 

We  are  a  civilized  people,  and  of  what 
use  is  civilization  if  it  doesn't  help  us 
to  deceive  and  to  be  deceived  in  order 
to  make  life  more  worth  the  living? 

But  I  was  really  surprised  when  I 
learned  yesterday  that  a  business  man, 
old  Durandeau,  whom  you  know  as  well 
as  I  do,  had  hit  upon  the  ingenious  and 
astounding  inspiration  of  dealing  in 
ugliness.  That  they  should  sell  beauty 
is  perfectly  comprehensible;  that  they 
should  sell  false  beauty  is  quite  natural, 
—it  is  a  sign  of  progress.  But  beyond 
the  shadow  of  a  doubt  Durandeau  has 
earned  the  gratitude  of  all  France  by 
putting  on  the  market  that  commodity, 
deadwood  until  now,  called  ugliness. 
Understand  me,  I  am  speaking  of  ugli- 
ness that  is  ugly— frank  ugliness, 
honestly  sold  as  ugliness. 

You  have  surely  often  met  women 
traveling  in  pairs  on  the  principal  ave- 


COMPLEMENTS  129 

nues.  They  walk  slowly,  stopping  at  the 
shop-windows  with  stifled  laughter  and 
carrying  their  clothes  gracefull3^  They 
lock  arms  like  two  old  friends  with  an 
air  of  intimacy ;  almost  of  the  same  age, 
costumed  with  equal  elegance.  But  you 
wdll  always  find  one  of  them  fairly  good- 
looking— one  of  those  faces  which  call 
for  no  especial  remark.  You  wouldn't 
think  of  turning  around  to  get  a  better 
view,  but  if  by  chance  you  should  notice 
her  you  could  look  without  displeasure. 
The  other  is  always  atrociously  ugly— 
irritatingl}^  so,  an  ugliness  which 
catches  the  eye,  which  compels  passersl^y 
to  make  comparisons  between  her  and 
her  companion.  Confess  that  you  have 
been  ensnared,  and  that  sometimes  you 
have  started  to  follow  the  two  women. 
The  monster  alone  on  the  avenue  would 
have  frightened  you.  The  fairly  good- 
looking  yoimg  woman  would  have  left 


130  COMPLEMENTS 

yoii  quite  indifferent.  But  they  were 
together,  and  the  ngliness  of  the  one 
heightened  the  beauty  of  the  other. 

Well,  I  can  tell  you :  the  monster,  the 
atrociously  ugly  woman,  belongs  to  Du- 
randeau's  Agency.  She  is  one  of  his 
"Complements.'*  The  great  Duran- 
deau  has  lot  her  to  the  insignficant  face 
at  five  francs  an  hour. 


COMPLEMENTS  13: 


II. 


Here  is  the  story.  Dnrandeau  is  a 
business  man  of  originality  and  inven- 
tion, a  millionaire  who  can  afford  to 
be  something  of  an  artist  in  trade.  For 
many  years  he  bewailed  the  fact  that 
one  had  never  been  able  to  make  a  cent 
out  of  ugly  girls.  As  for  speculating  in 
the  pretty  ones,  it  is  a  delicate  business, 
and  Durandeau,  who  has  all  the  scru- 
ples of  a  rich  man,  would  never  think 
of  it.  One  day  he  was  suddenly  in- 
spired. He  conceived  his  original  idea 
in  a  twinkling,  just  as  all  great  inven- 
tors do.  He  was  walking  on  the  Avenue 
when  he  saw  in  front  of  him.  two  girls, 
one  pretty  and  the  other  ugly.  And  as 
he  looked  he  understood  that  the  ugly 
one  was  an  adjustment  which  comple- 
mented the  pretty  one.    Just  as  ribbons. 


132  COMPLEMENTS 

rice  powder  and  false  tresses  are  to  be 
had  for  sale,  so  it  was  right  and  proper, 
he  reasoned,  that  beauty  should  be  able 
to  purchase  ugliness  like  an  ornament 
which  should  be  becoming. 

Durandeau  went  home  to  reflect  at 
leisure.  The  venture  which  he  was 
meditating  must  be  conducted  with  the 
greatest  tact.  He  did  not  wish  to  jmnp 
pell-mell  into  an  enterprise  which  would 
prove  a  bonanza  if  it  succeeded,  but 
ridiculous  if  it  miscarried.  He  passed 
the  night  in  calculations  and  reading 
the  philosophers  who  have  said  the 
cleverest  things  about  man's  folly  and 
woman's  vanity.  Next  morning,  at 
dawn,  he  had  come  to  a  decision.  Cal- 
culation had  borne  him  out:  the  phil- 
osophers had  said  so  much  about  the 
vileness  of  humanity  that  he  counted 
upon  a  large  patronage. 


COMPLEMENTS  133 


III. 

Would  I  had  the  inspiration ;  I  would 
write  the  epic  of  the  foundation  of  Du- 
randeau's  Agency.  It  would  be  an  epic 
farcical  and  sad,  full  of  tears  and 
bursts  of  laughter. 

Durandeau  had  more  trouble  than  he 
anticipated  in  laying  in  a  stock  of 
wares.  Wishing  to  act  directly,  he  con- 
tented himself  at  first  with  posting  on 
pipes  and  on  the  trees  in  by-places  little 
placards  which  bore  the  following 
legend,  written  by  hand:  "Wanted— 
Ugly  girls  to  do  easy  work."  He 
waited  eight  days,  and  not  a  single  ugly 
girl  applied.  Five  or  six  pretty  ones 
came  and  begged  for  work,  sobbing. 
They  were  just  hovering  between 
hunger  and  vice,  and  still  hoped  to  save 
themselves  by  work.    Durandeau,  much 


134  COMPLEMENTS 

embarrassed,  told  them  over  and  over 
again  that  they  were  pretty  and 
wouldn't  do.  But  they  insisted  that 
they  were  ugly,  that  it  was  pure  gal- 
lantry and  quite  wrong  on  his  part  if 
he  called  them  pretty.  And  now,  be- 
ing unable  to  sell  the  ugliness  which 
they  had  not,  they  are  selling  the  good- 
looks  which  they  have. 

Durandeau,  in  the  face  of  this  result, 
understood  that  only  pretty  girls  have 
the  courage  of  0"«rQing  to  imaginary 
ugliness.  As  for  the  really  ugly  ones, 
they  would  never  come  of  their  own  will 
and  admit  the  unmeasurable  size  of 
their  mouths  nor  the  extraordinary 
smallness  of  their  eyes.  Advertise  by 
hand-bills  that  you  will  give  ten  francs 
to  every  ugly  girl  who  will  x>resent  her- 
self, and  you  will  not  be  impoverished. 

Durandeau  gave  up  advertising.  He 
hired     half-a-dozen     emissaries     and 


COMPLEMENTS  135 

turned  them  loose  on  the  city  in  quest 
of  monstrosities.  There  was  a  general 
recruiting  of  the  ugliness  of  Paris.  The 
emissaries,  men  of  tact  and  taste,  had 
ticklish  business.  Their  methods  de- 
pended upon  the  character  and  position 
of  those  they  approached ;  brusque  when 
the  subject  was  in  dire  need  of  money, 
more  gentle  when  they  were  dealing 
with  some  girl  not  yet  on  the  brink  of 
starvation.  It  is  impossible  for  a  polite 
man  to  say  to  a  woman:  *' Madam,  you 
are  ugly.  I  will  pay  you  for  your  ugli- 
ness so  much  a  day.'* 

Some  memorable  episodes  occurred  in 
this  hunt  for  the  poor  girls  who  weep 
before  their  mirrors.  Sometimes  the 
emissaries  were  hot  upon  the  scent. 
They  had  seen  in  the  street  a  woman  of 
ideal  ugliness,  and  they  did  their  best 
to  bring  her  before  Durandeau,  to  earn 


136  COMPLEMENTS 

the  thanks  of  the  master.    Some  of  them 
had  recourse  to  extreme  methods. 

Evcrv  morning  Durandeau  received 
and  inspected  the  stock  gathered  the 
day  before.  Comfortably  ensconced  in 
an  armchair,  in  yellow  housecoat  and 
black  satin  cap,  he  had  the  new  recruits 
file  past  him,  each  with  the  emissary 
who  had  captured  her.  Then  he  would 
turn  away,  blink  his  eyes,  and  look  like 
a  fancier— displeased  or  satisfied.  He 
would  pause  and  hesitate ;  then  to  get  a 
better  view  he  would  have  the  goods 
turned  around  and  would  examine  them 
on  all  sides.  Sometimes  he  would  even 
rise,  totlch  their  hair  and  examine  their 
faces,  as  a  merchant  feels  of  a  woolen  or 
as  a  grocer  satisfies  himself  about 
candles  or  pepper.  When  the  ugliness 
was  unquestionable,  when  the  expres- 
sion was  stupid  and  dull,  Durandeau 
would  rub  his  hands  gleefully  and  con- 


COMPLEMENTS  137 

gratulate  the  emissary;  he  would  even 
have  embraced  the  monster.  But  he 
was  chary  of  new  kinds  of  ugliness. 
When  the  eyes  glistened  and  the  lips 
had  sharp  smiles,  he  frowned  and 
mumbled  to  himself  that  such  a  type  of 
ugliness,  if  it  was  not  exactly  fit  for 
love,  might  do  for  passion.  He  showed 
marked  coldness  to  the  emissary,  and 
told  the  woman  to  come  back  again, 
later  on,  when  she  was  older. 

It  is  not  as  easy  as  one  might  think 
to  be  an  expert  on  ugliness,  to  make 
a  collection  of  women  truly  ugly,  quite 
harmless  to  pretty  girls.  Durandeau 
proved  his  genius  in  the  selections  he 
made,  for  he  showed  how  deep  a  knowl- 
edge he  had  of  the  heart  and  of  the 
emotions.  The  great  criterion  for  him, 
of  course,  was  the  face,  and  he  accepted 
only  discouraging  faces— those  which 
froze  by  their  grossness  and  stupidity. 


138  COMPLEMENTS 

The  day  on  'wliicli  the  agency  -^as 
finally  opened,  when  it  placed  at  the 
disposal  of  pretty  women  ugly  ones 
suited  to  their  complexions  and  their 
particular  styles  of  beauty,  he  issued 
the  following  prospectus : 


COMPLEMENTS  139 

IV. 

Paris,  1st  May,  18— 
AGENCY  FOR  COMPLEMENTS, 

L.   DUEANDEAU, 

18  Rue  M ,  Paris. 

Office  Hours : 
10  to  4. 

Madam:— 

I  have  the  honor  of  advising  you  that 
I  have  just  established  this  house,  which 
must  be  of  the  greatest  service  for  the 
maintenance  of  woman's  beauty.  I  am 
the  inventor  of  an  article  which  will 
set  off  with  a  new  glory  nature 's  graces. 

Heretofore  adornment  has  been  pa- 
tent.    Laces   and  jewels  are  obvious. 


UO  COMPLEMENTS 

You  can  easily  detect  a  false  switch  in 
the  coiffure,  and  whether  the  purple  of 
the  lips  and  the  delicate  pink  of  the 
cheeks  are  tinted. 

Xow,  I  have  set  myself  to  the  solu- 
tion of  this  problem— impossible  at  first 
blush— to  beautify  women,  leaving 
everyone  to  guess  whence  comes  the 
added  touch.  Without  an  extra  ribbon, 
without  touching  the  skin,  my  purpose 
has  been  to  find  for  them  an  infallible 
means  of  attracting  all  eyes,  and  yet 
not  overdoing  nature 's  tender  grace. 

I  believe  I  may  flatter  myself  that  I 
have  completely  solved  the  apparently 
insoluble  problem  to  which  I  addressed 
myself. 

And  to-day  every  lady  who  will  honor 
me  with  her  confidence  can  secure,  at 
a  low  figure,  the  admiration  of  all  eyes. 

My  device  is  extremely  simple  and 
reliable.      I    need    only    describe    it, 


COMPLEMENTS  141 

Madam,  and  you  will  understand  at 
once  exactly  how  it  acts. 

Have  you  ever  noticed  a  poor  woman 
in  close  proximity  with  a  beauty  in  silks 
and  laces,  who  is  giving  her  alms  from 
her  gloved  hand?  Did  you  mark  how 
the  silk  shone  in  contrast  with  the 
tatters;  how  well  all  that  richness  was 
set  off  and  how  it  gained  from  contrast 
with  the  miserj^  ? 

Madam,  I  have  to  offer  to  handsome 
faces  the  most  complete  line  of  ugly 
ones  that  can  be  foimd  anywhere. 
Seedy  garments  set  oif  new.  My  ugly 
faces  set  off  pretty  ones. 

No  more  false  teeth;  no  more  false 
switches;  no  more  false  necks!  No 
more  make-up,  costly  costumes, 
enormous  expenditures  for  colors  and 
laces ! — Only  * '  Complements, ' '  which 
one  takes  by  the  arm  and  leads  along 


142  COMPLEMENTS 

the  Avenue,  to  set  off  one 's  beauty,  and 
win  the  tender  glances  of  the  gentlemen. 

Your  patronage  is  respectfully  solic- 
ited. Madam.  You  will  find  here  the 
ugliest  and  most  varied  assortment. 
You  are  at  liberty  to  select  and  suit 
your  beauty  with  the  type  of  ugliness 
which  best  becomes  it. 

Rates:  5  francs  an  hour;  50  francs 
a  day. 

I  am,  Madam,  most  respectfully, 

DURANDEAU. 

N.  B.— Tlie  Agency  supplies  likewise 
well-trained  mothers,  fathers,  uncles 
and  aunts.    Charges  moderate. 


COMPLET^IENTS  143 

V. 

The  success  was  great.  IsText  day  the 
Agency  opened  for  business.  The  of- 
fice was  crowded  with  customers,  each 
of  whom  chose  her  "Complement,"  and 
marched  her  off  in  a  sort  of  ferocious 
joy.  Can  you  imagine  what  a  pleasure 
it  is  for  a  handsome  woman  to  lean  on 
the  arm  of  an  ugly  one  ?  She  enhances 
her  own  beauty,  and  thoroughly  enjoys 
the  ugliness  of  the  other.  Durandeau 
was  a  great  philosopher. 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  however, 
that  the  working  of  the  Agency  was  per- 
fectly easy.  A  thousand  unforseen  ob- 
stacles arose.  The  difficulty  of  acquir- 
ing a  stock  in  trade  was  nothing  beside 
that  of  satisfying  customers. 

A  lady  would  come  in  and  ask  for  a 
*  *  Complement. ' '  They  showed  the  stock 
and  bade  her  choose,  presuming  only 


14^  COMPLEMENTS 

to  give  a  hint  of  advice  now  and  then. 
Thereupon,  the  lady  would  flit  from  one 
"Complement"  to  another,  disdainful, 
finding  the  poor  girls  too  ugly  or  not 
ugly  enough,  complaining  that  not  one 
of  the  uglinesses  suited  her  own  style 
of  beauty.  The  clerks  pointed  out  to 
her  the  crooked  nose  of  this  one,  the 
receding  forehead  of  another ;  they  were 
put  to  their  wits'  end. 

At  other  times  the  lady  herself  was 
frightfully  ugly— so  much  so  that  Du- 
randeau,  had  he  been  there,  would  have 
been  possessed  of  a  mad  desire  to  pro- 
cure her  at  any  price.  She  came  to 
have  her  beauty  heightened,  she  would 
say;  she  wanted  a  young  "Comple- 
ment"—not  too  ugly,  since  she  needed 
only  a  slight  adornment.  The  clerks,  in 
despair,  stationed  her  before  a  large 
mirror  and  paraded  behind  her  the  en- 
tire stock.    But  she  herself  would  have 


COMPLEMENTS  145 

taken  the  prize.  Then  she  would  sweep 
out,  indignant  that  they  had  the  pre- 
sumption to  offer  her  such  looking  ob- 
jects. 

Little  by  little,  however,  the  patron- 
age settled  dowTi.  Each  *  *  Complement ' ' 
had  her  regular  customers.  Durandeau 
could  rest  assured  in  his  heart  of  hav- 
ing helped  humanity  take  a  great  step 
in  advance. 

I  doubt  whether  the  position  of  the 
"Complement''  is  thoroughly  appre- 
ciated. It  has  its  joys,  which  are  shown 
to  the  world;  but  it  has  also  its  tears, 
which  are  hidden.  The  "Complement" 
is  ugly.  She  is  a  slave;  she  draws  her 
salary  for  being  a  slave  and  for  being 
ugly.  As  for  the  rest,  she  is  well- 
dressed,  she  shakes  hands  with  celebri- 
ties, she  lives  in  carriages,  she  luncheons 
and  dines  at  the  fam.ous  restaurants, 
she  passes  her  evenings  at  the  theatre. 


146  COMPLEMENTS 

Slie  is  apparently  on  terms  of  intimacy 
with  famous  beauties;  and  the  unini- 
tiated think  her  of  the  inner  circle  at  the 
races  and  at  first  nights.  All  day  she  is 
in  a  whirl  of  gaiety.  At  night  she  eats 
her  heart  out,  in  tears.  She  has  taken 
off  her  finery,  which  belongs  to  the 
Agency;  she  is  alone  in  her  attic  room, 
before  her  little  mirror,  which  tells  the 
truth.  She  is  face  to  face  with  all  her 
ugliness,  and  she  realizes  that  she  will 
never  be  loved.  She  whose  business  it 
is  to  kindle  emotion  for  others  will 
never  taste  a  kiss  herself. 


COMPLEMENTS  147 

VI. 

My  present  purpose  has  been  only 
to  outline  the  establishment  of  the 
Agency,  and  to  transmit  the  name  of 
Durandeau  to  posterity.  Such  men 
have  their  positions  well  defined  in  his- 
tory. Some  day  perhaps  I  will  write 
the  ** Confessions  of  a  Complement."  I 
knew  one  of  the  unfortunates,  and  her 
sufferings  touched  me  to  the  quick. 
She  used  to  enjoy  the  patronage  of  some 
women  whom  all  Paris  knows ;  and  they 
yvere  pretty  hard  on  her.  Have  pity, 
my  ladies !  Do  not  tear  the  laces  which 
bedeck  you :  be  gentle  to  the  ugly,  with- 
out whom  you  would  not  be  so  engaging. 

My  ** Complement"  was  a  spirited 
creature,  who,  I  imagine,  had  read  a 
great  deal  of  Walter  Scott.  I  can  think 
of  nothing  sadder  than  a  cripple  in  love 
or  an  ugly  woman  yearning  for  the 


148  COMPLEMENTS 

ideal.  The  poor  girl  fell  in  love  with 
all  the  men  whose  eyes  her  dreadful 
face  deflected  to  her  patronesses.  She 
has  liA'ed  many  a  little  drama.  She  was 
frightfully  jealous  of  those  women  who 
paid  for  the  use  of  her,  as  one  pays  for 
a  pot  of  pommade  or  a  pair  of  boots. 
She  was  a  thing  let  for  so  much  an  hour, 
and  it  always  turned  out  a  good  bar- 
gain. Can  you  imagine  her  bitterness, 
all  the  while  she  was  smiling  and  prat- 
tling with  those  women  who  were  steal- 
ing the  love  that  should  have  been  hers  ? 
And  those  very  pretty  women  who  took 
a  sj^iteful  delight  in  cajoling  her  in- 
timately before  the  world  treated  her 
like  a  servant  when  alone;  they  would 
have  liked  to  crush  her  for  fun,  as  they 
might  break  the  ornaments  on  their 
etageres. 

But  of  what  account  is  a  suffering 
soul  to  the  progress  of  the  world  ?    Hu- 


COMPLEMENTS  149 

manity  marches  on.  Durandeau  will  be 
blessed  by  generations  yet  unborn  for 
having  put  on  the  market  a  line  of 
goods  unheard  of  before,  for  having  in- 
vented a  device  to  make  woman's  con- 
quest easier. 


NEW  EDITION  JUST  OUT 

The  Awakening  of  Spring 

A  TRAGEDY   OF   CHILDHOOD 

BY 

FRANK  WEDEKIND 

A  drama  dealing  with  the  sex  question  in  its  relationship 
to  the  education  of  children 

Cloth,  gilt  top,  deckle  edge,  $1.25  net.    By  mail,  $1.35 

Here  is  a  play  which  on  its  production  caused  a  sensation 
in  Germany,  and  can  without  exaggeration  be  described  as 
remarkable.  These  studies  of  adolcscencQ  are  as  impressive  as 
they  are  unique. — Tlie  Athenaeum,  London. 

The  dialogue  is  extraordinarily  fresh  and  actual,  and  the 
short,  varying  glimpses  that  place  the  characters  and  the  situation 
before  you  are  vivid  as  life  itself.  The  book  is  not  one  to  be 
read  lightly  nor  lightly  to  be  set  aside.  It  has  a  message  that 
may  well  be  learned  here  as  elsewhere,  and  it  witnesses  to  a 
high  purpose  in  its  author  and  to  a  brave  spirit. — New  York 
Times  Saturday  Review. 

Tn  "The  Awakening  of  'Spring"  we  have  German  realism  at 
its  boldest.  Nearly  all  the  characters  of  the  play  are  children, 
and  its  action  revolves  about  that  groping  for  knowledge,  par- 
ticularly upon  certain  forbidden  subjects,  which  comes  with  end 
of  childhood. 

It  must  be  said  of  Wedekind  that  he  is  nowhere  gross.  His 
object  in  writing  the  play  was  to  arouse  German  parents  just 
as  Edward  Bok  is  trying  to  arouse  the  mothers  of  America,  and 
he  has  succeeded.  He  is  one  of  the  most  accomplished  of  the 
younger  Germans.  His  work  shows  profound  thought. — The 
Sun,  Baltimore. 


BROWN  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS 
N.  E.  Cor.  Fifth  and  Pine  Streets,  Philadelphia 


The  Creditor 

Fordringsagare 

A  Psychological  Study  of  the  Divorce  Question  by  the 

Swedish  Master 

AUGUST   STRINDBERG 

Author  of  "Froken  Julie,"  "Swanwhite," 
"Father,"  "Motherlove,"  etc. 

Translated  from  the  Swedish  by  Francis  J.  Ziegler 


Qoth,  $1.00  net.     Postage,  8  Cents 


Amid  that  remarkable  group  of  one-act  plays,  which 
embodies  August  Strindberg's  maturest  work  as  a  play- 
wright, the  tragic  comedy  "Fordringsagare"  (The 
Creditor),  occupies  a  prominent  place. 

"Fordringsagare"  was  produced  for  the  first  time  in 
1889,  when  it  was  given  at  Copenhagen  as  a  substitute 
for  "Froken  Julie,"  the  performance  of  which  was  for- 
bidden by  the  censor.  Four  years  later  Berlin  audiences 
made  its  acquaintance,  since  when  it  has  remained  the 
most  popular  of  Strindberg's  plays  in  Germany. 

BROWN  BROTHERS,  Publishers 

N.  E.  Cor.  Fifth  and  Pine  Streets,  Philadelphia 


SWAiNWHITE 

A    KAIRY    DRANIA 

By  august   STRINDBERG 


Translated  by  Francis  J.  Ziegler 


PRINTED  ON  DECKLE  EDGE  PAPER  AND  ATTRACTIVELY  BOUND 
IN  CLOTH 


$1.00  net,  Postage  8  Cents 


A  Poetic  Idyl,  which  is  charming  in  its  sweet  purity,  delightful  in  its 
optimism,  elusive  in  its  comjilete  symbolism,  but  wholesome  in  its  message 
that  pure  love  can  conquer  evil. 

So  out  of  the  cold  North,  out  of  the  mouth  of  the  world's  most  terrible 
misogynists,  comes  a  strange  message — one  which  is  as  sweet  as  it  is  unex- 
pected. And  August  Strindberg,  the  enemy  of  love,  sings  that  pure  love 
is  all  powerful  and  all-conquering.— SPRINGFIELD,  MASS., 
REPUBLICAN. 


It  is  worth  while  to  have  all  of  the  plays  of  such  a  great  dramatist  in 
our  English  tongue.  Since  the  death  of  Ibsen  he  is  the  chief  of  the 
Scandinavians.  .  .  The  publishers  deserve  thanks  and  support  fo.'  theii 
enterprise.  There  has  long  existed  a  need  for  just  such  an  edition  of  con- 
temporary foreign  plays.     .    .     ." — THE  SUN,  Baltimore. 


"  An  idyllic  play,  filled  with  romantic  machinery  of  the  Northern  fairy 
tales  and  legends.  ...  It  belongs  to  a  class  by  itself.  .  .  ." — 
PHILADELPHIA  RECORD. 

BROWN  BROTHERS,  Publishers 

N.  E.  Cor.  Fifth  and  Pine  Streets,  Philadelphia 


A  DILEMMA 

A  STORY  OF  MENTAL  PERPLEXITY 

By  LEONIDAS  ANDREIYEFF 
Translated  from  the  Russian  by  John  Cournos 


Cloth,  75  Cents  net.     Postage,  7  Cents 


A  remarkable  analysis  of  mental  subtleties  as  experi- 
enced by  a  man  who  is  uncertain  as  to  whether  or  not 
he  is  insane.  A  story  that  is  Poe-like  in  its  intensity  and 
full  of  g^rini  humor. 

One  of  the  most  interesting:  literary  studies  of  crime 
since  Dostoieff sky's  "Crime  and  Punishment." — Chicago 
Eveyiiyig  Post. 

A  grim  and  powerful  study  by  that  marvelous  Russian, 
Leonidas  Andreiyeff. — The  Sfuart  Set. 

Leotiidas  Andreiyeff  is  a  writer  who  bites  deep  into 
life.  In  him  Slavic  talent  for  introspection  is  remarkably 
developed.  Poetic,  powerfully  imaginative,  master  of 
stark  simplicity,  he  has  written  stories  stamped  with  the 
seal  of  genius.  AndreiyefY  is  an  O.  Henry,  plus  the 
divine  fire. — Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 


BROWN  BROTHERS,  Publishers 

N.  E.  Cor.  Fifth  and  Pine  Streets,  Philadelphia 


The  Woman  and   the  Fiddler 

A  PLAY  IN  THREE  ACTS  BY 

ARNE   NORREVANG 

Translated  from  the  Norwegian  by 

MRS.  HERMAN  SANDBY 

Cloth,  Uncut  Edges,  $1.00  net.  By  mall,  $1.08 

This  play  is  based  upon  one  of  the  legends  of  the 
fiddlers  who  used  to  go  about  from  valley  to  valley,  play- 
ing for  the  peasants  at  their  festivities. 

Enthralled  by  the  power  of  the  fiddler,  we  arc  drawn 
up  the  mountains.  We  breathe  the  rarified  atmosphere 
of  the  highest  peaks,  and  feel  the  strange,  penetrating 
light  of  the  midsummer  night,  the  light  which  is  neither 
of  day  nor  night,  but  seems  to  come  from  another  world 
"and  force  itself  beyond  our  heavy  eyelids!"  It  is  the 
moment  when  the  "great  red  sun  of  night  stands  still, 
while  mortals  dream!" 

We  see  the  vision ;  we  seem  to  tread  upon  the  clouds ; 
we  are  under  the  spell  of  the  enchantment!  The  story 
is  one  of  love  and  renunciation.  The  "great  moment" 
has  to  be  paid  for !  She  who  cannot  live  within  her 
mother's  white  dwelling  has  to  die!  "She  has  gone  too 
long  upon  the  mountains  with  the  sight  of  the  glisten- 
ing snow  in  her  eyes."     She  enters  the  land  of  mist! 

BROWN  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS 
N.  E.  Cor.  Fifth  and  Pine  Streets,  Philadelphia 


MODERN   AyTHORSl_SERIES 

Under  this  title  appear  from  time  to  time  short  stories  and  dramas, 
chiefly  translations  from  the  works  of  modern  European  authors, 
each  containing  from  32  to  64  pages.  Printed  in  large,  clear  type 
and  tastefully  bound  in  graj-  boards  with  paper  label.  Price  of 
each  volume,  25c.  net.     By  mail,  29c.     Five  Volumes  nowReady; 

ii  Q*l  '^  ^y  LEONIDAS  ANDREIYEFF 

l3lJl6IlC6  Translated  from  the  Russian.    Second  Edition 

An  unusual  short  story,  that    reads  like  a  poem  in  prose,  by  the 
leading  exponent  of  the  new  Russian  school  of  novelists 


"Motherlove" 


By  AUGUST  STRINDBERG 
Translated  from  the  Swedish 


An  exampleof  Strindberg's  power  as  analyst  of  human  nature.    A 

one-act  play  in  which  the  dramatist  lays  bare  the 

weakness  of  a  human  soul 

"A  Red  Flower" 

By  VSEVOLOD  GARSHIN 

A  powerful   short  story  by  one   of    Russia's    popular    authors, 
unknown  as  yet  to  the  English-speaking  public 

"The  Grisley  Suitor" 

By  FRANK  VVEDEKIND 

Author  of  "THE  AWAKENING  OF  SPRING."  etc. 

Translated  from  the  German 

An  excellent  story  of  the  De-Maupassant  type 
BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

"Rabbi  Ezra."    "The  Victim" 

Two  Sketches  Characteristic  of  the  Pen  of  this  Noted  German  Author 
OTHER  VOLUMES  IN  PREPARATION 

BROWN  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS 
N.  E.  Cor.  Fifth  and  Pine  Streets,  Philadelphia 


DISCORDS 

A  VOLUME  OF  POEMS 

BY 

DONALD    EVANS 

Net,  $1.00.     By  Mail,  $1.08 


With  the  publication  of  this  volume  must  end  the  oft- 
repeated  complaint  that  real  English  poetry  is  no  longer 
being  written. 

These  poems  have  no  sermon  to  preach,  no  evils  to 
arraign,  no  new  scheme  of  things  to  propound.  They 
are  poems  written  in  the  sincere  joy  of  artistic  creation, 
and  they  possess  a  compelling  music  and  an  abiding 
beauty. 

This  poet,  who  is  singing  only  for  the  pleasure  of  sing- 
ing in  his  sixty  or  more  poems  that  make  up  the  volume 
offers  vivid  glimpses  of  the  stress  and  strain  of  modern 
life. 

He  thinks  frankly,  and  his  utterances  are  full  of  free 
sweep  and  a  passionate  intensity. 


BROWN  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS 
N.  E.  Cor.  Fifth  and  Pine  Streets,  Philadelphia 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


MAY  06 1991 

APR  0  5  1991 


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